Full Circle
by Flaignhan
Summary: She will not cry over him. Not again. [Follow up to Schoolgirl Crush]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **So this is a sort of follow up to Schoolgirl Crush, with spoilers for all of series 3, but in particular, His Last Vow. This won't be massively long - about 9 chapters I believe, and you don't necessarily have to have read Schoolgirl Crush first, but I think it would be beneficial for context and stuff and things. Anyway. Hope you like it.

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He tosses the bangle into the air and it spins, catching the light, before it falls back into his hand. He launches it upwards again, watching its progress, trying to work out when exactly it will reach its peak, before it comes back down again. It's guilt, he knows that. It's why he's already thrown it across the room three times today, and then gone to collect it almost immediately, just in case somebody else takes it while he's passed out. He won't allow that to happen. No way. No matter how angry or frustrated it makes him, the bangle belongs to him.

Except it doesn't. Not really.

He had come in with the intention of faking it. Had thought that if he'd just spent enough time amongst the other addicts, that some of their unpleasantness would rub off on him, and he'd look (and smell) the part, and that would be that. He had kept a firm grip on the bangle for the first week, hardly ever releasing it, even in his sleep. It had been working, it had anchored him, reminded him of what had been done in the past, and what must never be done again.

He doesn't really remember the moment things changed. In fact, he doesn't really remember that night at all. He remembers the comedown though, hard and cold and _unbearable_. And so he had dealt with it, the only way he really knew how.

He hasn't had this much peace and quiet in his own head for years, hasn't managed to stay this still for this long since…well, since the last time. But the last time he had nearly died, and the memory of it sends a faint buzz of panic through him, muffled by the bliss flowing through his veins. He'll be all right. He's older now, wiser, he'll be absolutely fine. He rolls over onto his side (just in case) and curls up into a foetal position, closing his eyes, and trying to block out the memory of the look of disappointment on her face. His fingers trace the carved patterns on the bangle, and the feeling of being a let down intensifies, as much as it can when he's up to his eyeballs in heroin. He doesn't care though, because it's for a case, and the case is what matters, the case is what counts, and if he can do this, then maybe he can bring down Magnussen.

Getting clean won't be an issue. He's done it before, so he can do it again. He might choose a different facility this time however, or maybe he'll just sweat it out in Baker Street, have Mrs Hudson wait on him hand and foot, with Molly coming round every evening and staying with him, to make sure he's still alive.

Unless she's busy with _Tom_, that is.

He doesn't know what's happened to the world. He goes away for two years, and when he comes back, John's found a girlfriend and moved in with her, and now _married _her, _and_ got her up the duff to boot, and Molly, meanwhile, has found herself a dimwitted arse wipe who's got just enough braincells to realise that he's never going to do better, and so whips out a diamond ring, having the good fortune to choose a point in time when she's feeling particularly lonesome. It's absolutely ridiculous. He'd have thought, what with her knowing he was alive, that she might have actually considered him when making decisions like that. But no, she, like John, has abandoned him. After everything, he is alone again, save for the prattling Mrs Hudson and overbearing Mycroft.

Alone would be preferable, if he's being honest.

He lets out a sigh, preparing himself for a relaxing few hours, but the sound of footsteps breaks into his mind. He nearly yells out for the person to be quiet, to stop striding around like they own the place and making so much noise on the floorboards, but he doesn't; all that comes out of him is a vague grumble.

"Isaac? Isaac Whitney…"

Sherlock frowns. He knows that voice. He's probably hallucinating again, and so he huddles up in his hoodie, arms folded across his middle.

"Doctor Watson, where am I?"

Sherlock frowns again. Isaac's words are sluggish and slurred, as per usual. He doesn't think he's ever heard the boy utter a coherent sentence the entire time he's been here.

"Arse end of the universe with the scum of the earth," says that same, familiar voice. "Look at me?"

"Have you come for me?"

"You think I know a lot of people here?"

There's no way this can be a hallucination. Why on earth would he hallucinate about John talking to somebody else? Sherlock's hallucinations always involve himself. He's never merely just a bystander. That would be ridiculous.

He pushes himself up with his elbow and twists around on his mattress, to see John crouched next to Isaac, his hand on his shoulder while Isaac has a broad, dopey grin on his face.

"Oh, hello John. Didn't expect to see you here. Come for me too?"

His reflexes are a little slow, and he doesn't manage to dodge when John's fist comes flying towards his face, catching the corner of his mouth. The force of the impact slams him into the wall, his head smacking against the plaster, his mind going blank with the pain.

"Get up," John growls. He doesn't give Sherlock a chance to follow through on the order, and simply grabs him by the scruff of his hoodie and hauls him up. Sherlock's legs feel like jelly, and he has to focus all of his energy on stumbling forward with as much stability as he can muster. John starts to descend the stairs, still yelling about what a disgrace Sherlock is, and demanding to know what the hell is wrong with him, but Sherlock veers off along the corridor. When he reaches the end, he smashes the thin board of plywood out of the crumbling doorway and steps through it, John hot on his heels.

He's lucky to make it to the ground in one piece, his knees nearly betraying him when he jumps onto the bin, but he manages to drop down onto the grit store in one smooth move, this time more prepared, before he falls and breaks his neck.

John's still yelling, but Sherlock's barely listening. The daylight is absolutely blinding, and he can hardly see a thing, his eyes stinging after weeks inside that dingy darkened house. He clambers into the car, ignoring the meaningless chatter going on around him, and huffs irritably when he has to move over to the middle seat to let the other one in. He dabs at the corner of his mouth with a grotty old handkerchief, paying no notice to the _Shezza_ jibes, and hopes that John hasn't managed to split his lip. That'll raise a few unwanted questions, and he could _really_ do without that now.

"We're not going home, we're going to Bart's. I'm calling Molly."

Sherlock's ears prick up, his heart freezing in his chest. He wants to argue, wants to tell John that that's the worst decision he could possibly make in his life, but his brain can't come up with a justification quick enough. It's sluggish, unreliable, and he's furious with it for letting him down.

"Why?" Mary asks, turning to John, her hand poised over the gear stick, ready to depart.

"Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

His brain provides him with one word now, and it comes to mind at lightning speed.

_Fuck_.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Part two... Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. So glad to see people excited. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. ;)

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"I'll take the boys home," Mary says to John. "You sort muggins out."

"I need to make a phone call," John says quietly, and he disappears out of the lab, the door swinging shut behind him.

"You all right?" Mary asks delicately, turning towards Molly.

Molly nods, and the door swings open again, Sherlock trudging inside. She feels sick at the sight of him, in those grubby tracksuit bottoms, torn trainers and stained polo shirt. She plucks a fresh pair of latex gloves from the dispenser and pulls them on, returning to her proper work and flat out ignoring him.

She never thought she'd have to do this again. Never thought she would feel dread and rage coursing through her veins, or that nasty acidic burn at the back of her throat. She's shaking as she picks up her pipette, and is about to add three drops of iodine to her petri dish, but she knows she can't trust herself to not mess it up. She puts the pipette down and sighs, peeling off her gloves before she turns around, leaning back against the work bench, her hands resting on the edge of it. She looks down at the floor, and after a moment a cup of coffee is thrust into her sightline. She looks up, and Sherlock is standing in front of her, sipping a coffee of his own.

"What d'you want me to do with that?" she asks, glancing down at the coffee.

"Drink it," he says. "I'm hoping you won't throw it over me at least."

She hadn't considered that, and she's half tempted by the idea, but instead rises above it and shrugs.

"I'm not thirsty," she tells him.

He sighs and looks up to the ceiling as though _she's_ the problem, and she has a good mind to slap him again, before her anger reaches full capacity and she really loses it with him. But then she sees something glinting in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and without hesitation, she snatches it. Sherlock moves sharply away from her, hissing as hot coffee splashes over the rims of the mugs, burning his hands.

"When did you take this?" she demands, brandishing the bangle at him.

"Oh christ, Molly, does it really matter?" he says exasperatedly, dumping the mugs on the work bench and making a mess. His hands are shaking, and he shoves them in his pockets to hide them from view, but it doesn't make any difference. She's run the tests, hell, all she needed was to look at his face - his blotchy complexion and glazed eyes enough of a giveaway.

"You haven't been round to my place for months," she says, glaring at him. "So when did you take it?"

"I don't know, all right?" he says angrily. "I don't _know_."

She shakes her head and turns away from him, but he grabs her by the arm and whirls her around to face him.

"Don't touch me," she hisses wrenching her arm from his grasp. "You'll ruin my lab coat."

He glares at her, but it's true. He's filthy, and her bangle is caked with grime and muck and god only knows what else. She won't have him treating her work clothes the same way he treats her personal possessions. There's a line.

She turns away from him again and this time he doesn't try to stop her. From the corner of her eye she can see Mary, Billy, and the other boy looking down at the floor, pretending they're not listening to every word that passes between them. She doesn't care what they hear if she's honest. She's not the one who looks like an idiot here. She's not the one doped up to her eyeballs and reeking of stale sweat. She bites down hard on her lower lip when it starts to tremble. She will _not_ cry over him. Not again. If he's stupid enough to get himself wrapped up in this nonsense after everything, after he knows how hard it is to quit, then it's all on him. She's not bearing the brunt of it again.

"Molly…" He places his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them soothingly, trying to ease the tension out of her, perhaps in the hope that she'll calm down, but she knows this game. She knows what it means when he makes unnecessary physical contact, knows that in a moment, he will whisper requests sweetly in her ear, will tell her that he's sorry, that it won't happen again, and then, the second she's out of sight, he'll be shooting up again.

"I told you not to touch me," she says coldly, shrugging his hands off of her.

"Oh for god's _sake_," he huffs, his words drawn out and slightly slurred. She bites down harder on her lip as memories of him in his worst state flit through her mind.

She'd banked on never seeing him like that again.

"So you won't even let me explain, hmm? You're just going to shut me out?"

"There is _nothing_ to explain," she growls, spinning around to face him. "There is _nothing _you can say that will make this okay, do you understand me?"

"This isn't like before," he says, stepping forward and lowering his voice so only she can hear. "I can stop any time I like."

She laughs openly in his face, because it's the only thing she can do to keep herself from bursting into tears. She's heard that one more times she can count. When she stops laughing, she looks him in the eye, and his gaze has darkened into a venomous scowl, his lip curling in disdain.

"I've hardly been using anyway," he argues. "Just a little here and there, for the case."

"The case," Molly breathes, shaking her head in disbelief. "Of course, the _case_ requires you to do this…"

He doesn't say anything, and she takes a good long look at him. Well, for as long as she can bear to look at him at any rate. That horrible sweaty sheen on his face speaks volumes, as does the slack mouth, greasy hair and horrible pallor. He hasn't just been using a bit _here and there_. Does he think she's an idiot? Does he not remember last time? Does he think she would forget so easily, even if he _has _managed to delete it all?

"Show me your arms," she murmurs, knowing it's the only way to settle this. She won't stand here and be lied to, and he has only ever tried to outright lie to her when he's been high.

It's with a surprising amount of cooperation that he shrugs off his jacket and his hoodie, tugging the elasticated cuffs over his hands and before he slings them both onto the nearest stool. He stretches out his arms before her, exposing the pale clammy skin of his forearms. There are only a couple of faint, yellowing bruises in the crook of his left elbow, and he raises his eyebrows smugly at her.

"Take off your shoes."

"What?"

She can see the panic register behind his eyes. He's so easy to read like this, he's almost _normal_. It's horrible, but she won't have him play dumb. She looks down at his grotty trainers, then back up at him, her gaze unrelenting.

"Take. Off. Your. Shoes."

The entire lab is silent, all eyes on Sherlock as his fingers rapidly tap the sides of his thighs. She can't stand seeing him like this, and it just feels like a huge slap in the face from the past, naturally when she needs it the least. But still, at least her break up will give him plenty of ammo to use on his comedown, she's sure of that. She maintains her gaze regardless, pushing all of her feelings of despair to one side. They can wait until later. If she breaks now, he'll win, and if he wins, he'll go and pump more shit into his body, just to rub her face in it.

He's spiteful like that.

Slowly, more slowly than she has ever seen him do anything in his life, Sherlock toes off his trainers, kicking them to one side. He stands there in his socks, and even has the audacity to raise an eyebrow, but Molly can see dry brown specks crusted on the grey cotton.

"And your socks," she says.

He hesitates again, but when he does move, it's more quickly than before, reaching out one hand to balance himself against the work bench while he lifts up his left foot and pulls the sock off of it. Molly hears Mary let out a shaky sigh, but she's not finished yet.

"And the other one." She balls her hands into fists, to keep them from shaking and bites down on the inside of her lower lip, knowing that at any moment, she's going to feel the stomach acid rise in her throat.

Sure enough, the right foot is far worse than the left, the gaps between his toes blackened with bruises. She can see the faint red needle marks, despite the skin around them being coloured black and blue. The left foot has smaller bruises, and some of them have even had the chance to fade, but the right foot…the right foot just blows his lies right out of the water.

"So when you say _just a little_," Molly says through gritted teeth. "You actually mean you're as bad as you ever were."

He doesn't have anything to say to her and it's probably for the best. She's not sure there's anything left he can say that won't hurt. She doesn't trust him when he's like this. It always ends in tears. Never his. Always hers.

"Get out," she says softly. He stares and her dumbstruck, and she takes a deep breath, steeling herself for another argument. "Get _out_."

"Molly - "

"You're barred from this lab until you're clean," she says, looking away from him before he can start to protest. "I can't trust you to be here."

"But - "

"You just _lied to me_. D'you think I'm an _idiot_?" She can feel tears building but she swallows the lump in her throat and ploughs on. "D'you really think I've forgotten all your little tricks to try and hide it from me?"

"No," he says boredly, looking towards the ceiling, apparently resigned to the situation.

"Well then," she says, nodding. She can feel her entire body trembling with a mixture of rage and grief. It feels as though she's lost him all over again, and if he can sink to this when he has so many people who love him, so many people who understand him this time around, then he's going to fall off the wagon again and again and again, providing he has the most vague justification for it in his drugged up little mind.

"Am I to be spared the _I'm not mad, just disappointed_ speech then?" he asks, feigning pleasantness.

"Oh Jesus Christ…" Mary mutters, covering her face with her hand. Even the boys pull a face at Sherlock's words, and he is, apparently, the only one in the room who actually thinks they're a good idea.

"I'm not mad," Molly says with a shrug, before adding in a hiss, "I'm fucking _furious_."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'd managed to ascertain that from all the _slapping_. Doesn't take a genius…"

"I seem to remember telling you to get out," Molly says coldly, folding her arms. "I wasn't joking."

A small, smug laugh escapes him and he shakes his head. "Of course. Remember what happened last time you _abandoned_ me? I nearly died."

"Yeah," Molly says airily, refusing to let him place the blame on her. That was nothing to do with her, that was all him. "And then you turned up on my doorstep, told me you were going to rehab and then burst into tears. Seemed to work last time, so let's just skip over the niceties, shall we?"

Rage, such as she has never seen on him before flashes across his face, and for one moment, she's terrified of him. She's never told another living soul about that night, and here she is, blabbing in front of Mary and a couple of other smackheads he's dragged in with him. It's a low blow, she knows, but she needs him to understand just how bad things got last time, before he lets them slip that far again. He's forgotten it, been too efficient when deleting things from his brain. He probably remembers it as a walk in the park. She doesn't remember it like that at all.

"I told you to get out," she says softly. "I won't tell you again."

He runs his hands through his hair, then slams a clenched fist down on the work bench and lurches towards her. "You just crossed a line," he growls.

"No," Molly spits, standing her ground. "_You've_ crossed a line. Now get out."

He doesn't move a muscle, still towering over her. "No."

"I said _get out_!" She gives him an almighty shove and he stumbles backwards, falling to the floor, his balance all off kilter. He stares at her, dumbstruck, but she's had enough. She's asked him far too many times and she can feel herself cracking, on the verge of falling apart, and she will _not_ do it in front of him. She won't give him that satisfaction. She knows a part of him loves it when he makes her cry. It's a box ticked for him, and she imagines that by making her feel terrible, he can drag himself up a little bit, give his drugged up ego a much needed boost so he can forget the reality of him being a dirty disgrace.

He still hasn't moved, and she can't stand to see him for a moment longer.

"_Get out_!" she shrieks, and she hurls the bracelet at him. It hits him in the shoulder and falls to the floor with a clatter, and after a moment, Sherlock springs into action, scrambling for his shoes, socks and jacket, before he stumbles towards the door, his bare bruised feet slapping against the linoleum flooring. The door bangs shut behind him and Molly sags against the work bench, tears spilling from her eyes. She covers her mouth with her hands, trying to control her breathing. She won't get worked up, she _can't_ get worked up, not with an audience. If she's going to crumble over this then she'd much rather do it alone. Just like before.

Mary rushes forward and wraps her arms around her, rubbing her back soothingly and uttering meaningless words of comfort. The door or the lab opens and they both whip their heads around, but it's John who has returned. Not Sherlock.

"What's going on?" he asks slowly, his face contorting into an expression of confusion as he looks between the two of them. "I heard shouting."

"Sherlock," Mary says obviously, and when John doesn't move, adds: "Well go after him then!"

John doesn't need telling twice, and he disappears in an instant, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the corridor as he runs after Sherlock.

"You knew him first time around, didn't you?" Mary says, turning back to Molly, her eyebrows drawn into a concerned frown. She already knows the answer, Molly can tell from her tone, but she nods regardless, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Jesus, Molly…" Mary sighs, shaking her head. "I never realised… How long have you known him?"

"Too long," Molly replies, sniffing, her eyes puffy from her tears. "Far too long."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **And I'm off to bed. Rawr. Thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this one too. :)

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She knocks off early, rushing through her work and leaving a few pieces of paperwork until the morning. She can't think straight, and she feels as though she's twenty again, struggling to juggle her own life with keeping Sherlock alive. She's skipped the sympathy this time, knowing it only provided a safety net last time, but she can't help but feel he'll do something stupid out of spite. He's an idiot when he's high, and he's vicious, especially towards her.

The only silver lining is that it's not only her problem now. He has John and Mary to clean him up. It won't just be down to her to buy the Vanish to get the vomit stains out of his clothes.

Her phone rings and she knows who it is before she even looks at the screen. She's surprised it's taken him this long to be perfectly honest. She slides her thumb across the bottom of the screen, then raises the phone to her ear.

"Yes?"

"You need to look after him."

"No," Molly says. "He's an adult. He should be looking after himself by now."

"He's a _man-child_," Mycroft sighs. "He can't look after himself."

"Well it's about time he learned, don't you think?"

"This isn't up for discussion," Mycroft says calmly. "You realise that, don't you?"

"Why don't you look after him? Or is blood not thicker than heroin?" She refuses to be bullied into coddling Sherlock. If anything, that's the worst thing for him. If he gets looked after, the whole sorry saga will drag out for years, just like last time. She's learned her lesson the hard way.

"You know full well that you're the only one he'll pay any attention to," Mycroft drawls, but Molly doesn't care.

"Just leave him, it worked last time."

"He nearly died last time," Mycroft replies sharply.

"Yeah," Molly says, "and he still hasn't learned his lesson, has he?" She disconnects the call before Mycroft can argue any more, and briefly smiles as she imagines the look of horror on his face at her behaviour. She collapses onto the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest, and chews on her lower lip anxiously. He'll be fine, she's sure of it. John will keep an eye on him, as will Mycroft and Mrs Hudson. But all the same, there is that sly nagging voice in the back of her head (that sounds irritatingly like _him_) that whispers poisonous little things such as: _What if they don't know what to do with him? What if they don't find him until it's too late? What if he does die, and it's all your fault?_

A knock at the door snaps her out of these thoughts and she looks up, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown. The knock is soft, timid, and confusing. She never gets visitors, especially not unannounced ones.

"Molly, it's me," he says quietly through the door. "Can I talk to you?"

She sighs, knowing she doesn't have the emotional strength for this. And yet, as though her body is acting independently of her mind, she stands up, trudges towards the door, and pulls it open, just far enough so she can see him.

He pulls the bangle out of his pocket, shinier than even when it was new, and hands it to her.

"I went to a jeweller's and had it cleaned," he says simply.

"Obviously," Molly replies coldly. She slides it over her wrist for safekeeping, then looks up at him. He's almost back to normal; plain white shirt, dark trousers, jacket, the works. And yet, when she looks him in the eye, she feels that same stab of betrayal in her chest that she felt when he first skulked into her lab that morning. He's high as a kite, he's just hiding it, and while the others might take a change of clothes as a change of attitude, she knows better. He knows he can't hide it from her either.

"Can I come in?" he asks delicately, his fingers trailing against the doorframe. He meets her eye and she looks away, not wanting to stare into those dilated pupils. They make her feel sick.

After a moment, she pushes open the door fully, and he squeezes past her, hands thrust in his pockets to hide his tremors.

She slams the door closed and he bows his head, apparently deciding that cockiness will not help him in this situation.

"I mean it when I say it's for a case," he says quietly. "I didn't just wake up one day and decide to go back to it."

"A case," Molly breathes, shaking her head. "Why on earth do you think someone else's problems are a good enough reason to go back to this?"

"It's a big case," he mumbles.

"Oh _well_," Molly says with sarcastic brightness, forcing out a smile. "If it's a big case then I suppose it's all right."

"Molly..." he says, taking a step towards her. He reaches out to her but she steps away, and his hand falls back to his side.

"I've had a bath," he says, looking down at his hands. His nails are no longer grimy, and all traces of dirt and muck have been scrubbed off.

"Yeah but it doesn't mean you're clean, does it?"

He sighs and leans back against the wall, folding his arms. It says a lot that he's not arguing. Not that he's sorry; if apologies come, and they come genuinely, then they'll come later, when he's hit rock bottom. He simply can't be bothered, that's all it is. He knows he has to keep her on side, but the effort of it is a little too much for him.

"I know you've taken more since this morning," she tells him quietly. "I'm not an idiot."

"I need a clear head for tonight," he replies softly. "I can't be on the comedown. I've got things I need to do."

"Course," she says, looking down at her feet. "Of course you have."

"When it's all over, I'll come off it, I promise. It's just this case and then I'm done, I swear." He steps towards her, but then he must remember her request for distance because he stops in his tracks, looking crestfallen.

"I'll believe it when I see it," she says. She's heard promises like this time and time again, but they were never kept. Not once. It hurts her to be so cold with him, but she knows it's what he needs. Apart from that, it's what she needs. The whole sorry situation nearly destroyed her last time, and she won't get dragged down again. She's already given up far too much for him and his addiction.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he says, his eyes fixed on her. "Really, I am."

"Okay," she says, shrugging her shoulders.

"I never wanted you to find out," he adds. "You were never supposed to know."

"Oh right," Molly says looking up to the ceiling and doing her best to ignore the unpleasant swirl of emotions in her chest. "So I suppose that's all right then."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I just mean it was all supposed to be over and done with and you'd never find out…you'd never get hurt."

"I was always going to find out," Molly says softly. "You're not as good at hiding it as you think."

"I suppose," he says tiredly. "Can't hide anything from you, it seems."

Molly closes her eyes and rests the back of her head against the wall. She breathes deeply, but it does nothing to ease her stress. She doesn't know whether she wants to beat Sherlock to a pulp or keep him here forever and help him get better again. Of course, either way, she wants him to get better again, but she doesn't know if she has the strength to carry him this time.

Her body betrays her, and a much unwanted tear leaks out the corner of her eye, trickling down her cheek and dropping onto her blouse. She hears him sigh, and then his footsteps as he approaches, and she opens her eyes to see him standing inches away from her. He pulls her into a hug and she doesn't fight him. Her principles have taken a backseat because now she needs the comfort, even if it comes from the one person who is the root cause of all of her problems. She holds him tightly, despite the fact that he is being so gentle, so tender, and so very _un_Sherlock that it might as well not be him at all, but a stranger.

The sad fact is that she knows this Sherlock, the one who will feign human emotions to steer things his way, just as well as she knows the obnoxious detective, or the mess of the junkie. They are all Sherlock in equal measure, and she can never quite decide when she can trust him and when she can't. It's been easier to make that decision in recent years, but now he's slipped back into old habits, she knows that what little part there is of him that gives a damn about her feelings is being silenced by heroin. Nothing matters, providing he gets what he wants, and what he wants is usually another fix.

The text alert on her phone sounds, and Molly pulls away from Sherlock, reaching into her pocket and taking out her phone.

_Have you seen the Evening Standard? Is it true? Have you seen him?_

"Apparently you've made the news," Molly says thickly, wiping her eyes quickly before shooting off a quick reply.

_No. Yes. Yes, he's here now._

"Says who?" he asks, frowning. He cranes his neck to try and read her texts but Molly leans away, holding her phone close to her chest.

"Says Stacey," Molly replies distractedly as another text arrives.

_Are you okay? Is he staying with you? If not, d'you want me to come over and/or we can go to the pub. If yes, let's go to the pub anyway. I'll give him a kicking too if you like. _

"Oh of _course_ Stacey knows," Sherlock grumbles.

Instead of acknowledging his grumbling, Molly asks, "Are you staying here tonight?"

"No," he says shortly. "Things to do."

"Yeah but after," Molly presses. "Where are you going _after_?"

"Back to Baker Street," he says with a shrug.

"On your own?"

"Yes."

"And you'll use again?"

Sherlock sighs, his shoulders slumping. He fiddles with the button on his jacket and looks down at his feet. He doesn't need to say a single word for Molly to know what his answer is, and knows that the only reason he hasn't said a word is because the truth will get him in as much trouble as a lie.

"Why don't you just come here afterwards? I don't care how late it is, just come here, and you can stop. I'll help you stop."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," he says, ruffling his hair anxiously with one hand.

"Coming here? Or stopping?"

"It's a really big case," he says. "And - "

"And after you've dealt with whatever it is while completely off your face…"

Sherlock sighs again, more heavily this time.

"Please Sherlock," Molly says quietly, reaching out to touch his arm. "Please."

"We'll see," he says at last, and she knows what that means. It means she might as well have asked him to sprout wings and fly across the Channel. He touches her shoulder gently, and then trails his hand down to her wrist, his fingertips lingering on her pulse point, before curling around the silver bangle.

"Can I keep a hold of this?" he asks. "Just for a while?"

"Why?" Molly asks in a whisper. "Why d'you always take it?"

He skews his lips, his fingers tapping against the bangle, and considers his answer for a good long while.

"Because," he says slowly. "When I'm so close to losing you, I find it wise to keep a part of you with me."

She looks him in the eye, momentarily forgetting that he's not really there. The lights are on, but Sherlock's not home. They're not his eyes, they're the eyes of a stranger. This only upsets her further, because no matter how sweetly he speaks to her, she knows it's all just words and nothing more.

"Go out with Stacey," he says, slipping the bangle over her wrist and making a move towards the door, ready to leave. "Have fun. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be fine. I promise."

After he's gone, his words echo in Molly's mind as she gets ready to meet Stacey. He must really be an idiot, because he's far from fine, and it'll be a long long while before he's even in the same vicinity as fine.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Chapter four is here. And I may or may not have been channelling junkie!Sherlock today. By which I mean I have spent all day on the sofa in trackies half asleep. It's been _wonderful_.

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Stacey sets down two tall glasses and drops into her seat, chair legs scraping against the floor as she pulls herself closer to the table.

"Drink up," she says cheerfully. "Plenty more where that one came from."

Molly does as told and dips her head so she can reach the straws. She nearly gags when she swallows the first mouthful, and pulls away in disgust.

"Is that a double?" she asks, unused to such strong quantities of vodka in her coke. She's not a student anymore, she can't handle half spirit, half mixer like the old days. Stacey skews her lips.

"Double and a bit more," Stacey tells her, then grins slyly. "I know the barman."

"Know him?" Molly asks, raising an eyebrow. "Or _know _him?"

"So you've seen him then?" Stacey asks, straightening her top distractedly as she changes the subject. "Sherlock, I mean."

Molly sighs and rests her chin on the heel of her palm. She had almost forgotten about everything, forcing herself to concentrate on going out and having a half decent time with Stacey, ignoring that horrible niggling feeling at the base of her skull. It shoots out poisonous thoughts at regular intervals, but she shuts them down and redoubles her concentration on her current surroundings, even if that means counting the number of chairs in the pub, or trying to spot underage drinkers who've managed to get lucky when being served.

"He was such a mess, Stace, he really was," she says in a small voice, ignoring the hot prickling in her eyes. She takes another sip of her drink and this time it's not so bad. The burn of the alcohol anchors her, and she can almost block the image of him and his tracksuit bottoms from her mind completely. Almost.

"I can't believe that for someone who's meant to be a genius, how much of an idiot he is," Stacey says, pursing her lips judgementally. "I mean really, after he got clean last time - "

"He was lonely," Molly says. "I know he was, I _saw_ he was, and I just thought he'd be all right. Texted him every so often but you know how things are…I should have…" She shakes her head and takes another, much longer sip of her drink.

"It's not _your_ fault," Stacey says firmly. "It's his. He's a moron. Seriously, don't even think about blaming yourself for this."

Molly sighs and says nothing. Everything Stacey is telling her she knows to be true. It's _not_ her fault and he most certainly _is_ a moron. She's told herself this a million times today, and she told herself exactly the same thing last time around. Except, just like last time, she feels an overwhelming sense of responsibility. She knows that Mycroft only has so much patience with him, and also knows that Sherlock would relish in being abandoned by his brother a second time. And so it falls to her, naturally, to pick him up and brush him off and set him right again, which would be simple enough if he actually wanted it. And therein lies the problem.

"He doesn't deserve you, you know," Stacey says wisely, reclining in her seat, drink in hand. "Doesn't deserve you one little bit."

"Doesn't really make any odds," Molly mumbles, running a hand through her hair. "I'm all he's got."

"What about that mate of his? The short one?"

Molly smiles, but the brief feeling of amusement disappears rather quickly. "John'll do his best but…" She shrugs. She's not sure John has the patience required for such an arduous task. He might make the mistake of thinking, like she did last time around, that all Sherlock needs is some encouragement, a shove in the right direction, and someone to look after him when he slips up.

"Well," Stacey says, clearly struggling to find something helpful to say. "Just count yourself lucky that he hasn't pitched himself off the top of Bart's again."

Molly stares at her, but she doesn't seem perturbed. Instead of trying to retract her words, or at least clarify what she really means, she ploughs on in true Stacey fashion, priorities all in order, as per usual.

"Well," she says, pausing to take a quick sip of her drink. "You'd have to get a new outfit for the funeral for starters. You can't exactly wear the same outfit to _both_ his funerals. People'll judge."

"Can we _not_ talk about his funeral?" Molly asks, still stunned that that was Stacey's first choice of silver lining for the situation. Because of course, the best thing to say to someone dealing with an addict who's already suffered one cardiac arrest, is that they should be thankful that he's not dead _yet_.

"All I'm saying is you coped with his death better than you're coping with his relapse," Stacey says knowingly, giving Molly a pointed look before she downs the last of her drink and places her empty glass on the stained coaster on the table.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Molly asks, fiddling with her straws, eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

"Well," Stacey says, leaning forward, apparently pleased with the opportunity to say her piece. "I've been doing some thinking."

"Oh don't do that, Stacey, for everyone's sake."

Stacey sits back in her chair, eyebrow raised, mouth slightly ajar, and Molly immediately regrets her acidic reaction.

"Wow," Stacey says, "You _have_ been spending a lot of time with him."

Molly rubs her face tiredly, and doesn't bother to point out that the exact opposite is true. Until today, she hadn't seen him for at least month, and prior to that, the most she'd spoken to him was during the preparations for John and Mary's wedding, when he would turn up at the morgue at random times of the day asking her questions which any normal person would know the answer to. She should have seen there was a problem then, his anxiety flowing out of him in the form of a desperate desire for control and perfection. She should have realised he wasn't coping, with the world around him moving too fast while he was away, only for him to return to it unchanged, tasked with playing catch up to everyone else.

"Has he been helping you get over your break up with dipshit?" Stacey asks, her eyes lighting up.

"Don't call him that," Molly says exasperatedly. "And no, he only found out today."

"Oh," Stacey says, slumping in her seat. She catches the arm of the barman on his way past, and looks up at him, smiling sweetly. "Think we're gonna need another round, babe." He nods, his fingers grazing against her shoulder as he moves away, and Stacey returns her attention to Molly. "Well I'm glad you're not marrying him anyway," she says, all traces of sweetness disappearing. "And he _was_ a complete tool, Molly, you know that, don't you?"

Molly sighs heavily and doesn't answer. Yes, she knows that, that's why she's single, but on the day she finds out that Sherlock's relapsed, the last thing she needs is for Stacey to be reminding her of her disaster of an engagement.

"You should marry Sherlock instead," Stacey says matter-of-factly. "That'd be good."

"Oh yeah," Molly says sarcastically, nodding in faux approval. "Because while a perfectly nice guy is deemed unsuitable husband material, a heroin addict who faked his own death by jumping off of the building where I work is a _total_ catch."

"Well obviously get him clean _first_," Stacey says with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "But you're blatantly still in love with - "

"No I'm _not_," Molly argues, realising far too late that she is protesting far too much.

"Well _whatever_. I just think he'd make you a hell of a lot happier than shit-for-brains ever did. He's a bit mental, you know? You like that sort of thing, don't you?"

"Do I?" Molly asks sceptically. She knows exactly what Stacey's getting at. Tom had been given the boot after Molly had realised that she was going to spend every weekend for the rest of her life in a pub. His crimes were stupid things, such as bringing her flowers, watching the football with his feet up, and occasionally attempting to cook. It had been nice, for while. But when she realised that he was never going to burst into her flat at two o'clock in the morning and ask her to come on a top secret adventure, the magic had rather gone out of things.

Admittedly Sherlock had only ever asked her to come on top secret adventures a handful of times, and none of them in recent years. He also hadn't worded it as a 'top secret adventure', but Molly had injected a little drama into the situation, just for fun.

But she knows, as she has known since she was very young, that Sherlock will never settle. She doubts he'll ever even entertain the idea of a relationship, so the whole conversation is null and void, as far as she's concerned.

A fresh glass of vodka and coke is placed in front of her, and her empty glass whisked away. She looks up at the barman and thanks him, while Stacey leans down and tugs her purse out of her bag.

"How much do I owe you?" she asks.

"Don't be silly," the barman says. "Put your money away."

"Are you sure?" Stacey asks, eyes wide and bright, and Molly closes her eyes.

"Course I'm sure," he says in reply. "You hanging about later?"

"Might do," Stacey says slowly. "Thanks babe."

Molly tries to ignore the bubbling feeling in her stomach. She knows the tone that Stacey has taken on, the sweet, innocent, and adoring little voice that always manages to get exactly what it wants. There is a thud as Stacey drops her purse back into her bag, and Molly opens her eyes, now that the barman is safely behind the bar, serving actual paying customers.

"You're terrible," Molly says, then takes a sip of her drink. She won't complain too much, especially not when the quantities of vodka are sufficiently numbing her mind so she's not constantly fretting over whether Sherlock's currently alive or dead.

"Don't know what you mean," Stacey says slyly. "He's very nice, and I like him a lot."

"Yeah," Molly says, picking up one of the coasters and flipping it over in her hands, barely paying attention to the faded pictures on either side of it. "And I seem to remember you being on the verge of breaking up with Tony Whitely, but then he got that job in River Island - _and_ the staff discount - and you managed to drag that one out for another six months."

Stacey smirks. "What d'you want me to say? Not all of us are besotted with psychopathic junkies."

"He's not a psychopath…" Molly mumbles, knowing she has lost this round of deflecting the attention away from unwanted conversation topics.

"Well _whatever_," Stacey says. "But I still think you should marry him."

Molly ignores her, and focuses instead on her drink, swirling her straws around, ice cubes clinking against the glass. Naturally, her mind wanders to Sherlock. She can't help herself; she wants to know where he is, what he's doing, whether he's in trouble and if he needs help. But really, what she wants to know above anything else, is whether he'll roll into her flat in the early hours, on the comedown from one last hurrah. She might call in sick tomorrow, just so she has a full day that she can devote to getting him to take the first steps to sobriety. She knows it's ridiculously optimistic to think that one day would be sufficient, but even if she can just get him to _agree_ to getting clean, if they can set a date for him to go cold turkey, make arrangements for where he's going to stay because he obviously can't be on his own. Even one of those things would feel like a victory.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and Molly fishes it out, frowning when she sees John's name on her screen. She takes the call, Stacey watching her with curious eyes, glass paused halfway to her mouth.

"What's happened?" Molly asks, trying to swallow down the stomach acid rising in her throat. John hardly ever calls, and would certainly never call this late in the evening for a chinwag. She knows, especially today, that it's news. She also knows that where Sherlock is concerned, no news is usually good news, and despite her best efforts, she can't keep her hands from shaking.

"He's been shot." John's voice is void of all emotion. He's in shock, but Molly can't register the words that have just come out of her phone.

"What d'you mean he's been _shot_?" she demands, panic flaring in her veins, skin prickling as her heart starts pounding rapidly in her chest. Stacey drops her glass with a loud clunk, and the table is flooded with vodka and coke, but neither of them make any move to clean it up. Stacey's face holds the same expression of startled disbelief that Molly can feel on her own, and she pushes the fog of alcohol away from her brain so she can give John her undivided attention.

"I mean," John says slowly. "He's been shot. With a gun. Bang bang." There's no humour in his tone, just emptiness.

"Is he _okay_?" Tears prickle in the corner of her eyes and Molly bites down on her lip. Everything from today rushes through her head, the arguments, the low blows, the faux affection and the assurances that he knows what he's doing. And all of it, _all of it_, seems so bloody stupid and childish now she's hearing these words.

"They're working on him," John sighs, and Molly knows what that means.

Stacey's already putting her coat on and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She grabs Molly by the arm and hauls her out of her seat, before picking up her bag for her, grabbing her coat and leading Molly out of the pub. She hails a taxi, while Molly tries to convince herself that he's going to be all right, but she can't, she can't lie to herself, not when John sounds so hopeless.

"Where is he?" Stacey demands, hauling open the cab door and climbing inside.

"Which hospital, John?" Molly asks softly as Stacey pulls her into the back seat of the taxi.

"Royal London," John tells her. "He's in theatre."

"Royal London. See you in a minute," Molly says bleakly as Stacey barks orders at the driver. She disconnects the call and slides her phone back into her pocket. The tears start to come thick and fast as she stares out of the window, watching the streetlights blur as they whizz down one-way streets. She can only think of one thing as they are thrown about by ignored speed bumps.

She's lost him. And this time, it's for good.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Happy one-week-into-the-hiatus day. Enjoy. :)

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He's alive. Just.

Her breathing has fallen into rhythm with the bleeping of his heart monitor, and she keeps her hand gently wrapped around his, her fingers resting against the pulse point on his wrist just to remind herself that he is in fact still with her. The nurses come to check on him every so often, but none of them have tried to send her home, despite the fact that the sky outside is gradually lightening from an inky blue to a much softer hue as the sun creeps its way over the horizon. John departed after he was assured by doctors that Sherlock was stable, but Molly had chosen to stay. She's not sure she could leave him again if she's being perfectly honest. She knows she should have done more to convince him to stay with her, to leave the case, because other people's problems just aren't _worth it_.

But no, here he is, unconscious in a hospital bed, held together by threads and staples. Her tears have long since dried up, her heartbeat returning to normal, now that the initial panic is over. She keeps telling herself that he'll wake up, that he'll pull through, that it's only the first night and it could be _days_ before he wakes up. That's all right though. She doesn't mind waiting, so long as he gets better.

By ten o'clock, she is in desperate need of a coffee and some food, so she heads down to the cafeteria, stands in line with the other glum-faced patrons, and eventually gets her hands on a latte and a bacon sandwich. She heads back up to Sherlock's room, but when she arrives, someone else is already there.

"Janine?" Molly asks, confused. She has no idea why Mary's bridesmaid is here, why she of all people would have been informed. She skews her lips, trying and failing to block out the memory of Sherlock tossing a flower to her after his violin performance at the wedding.

"Oh, Mel, isn't it?"

"Molly," she replies stiffly.

"Molly, _right_, sorry." She smiles, and it's only now that Molly notices the collar of her dress is stained with blood.

"You okay?" Molly asks cautiously, stepping into the room fully now, but leaving the door open behind her.

"Yeah," Janine says. "They've just discharged me. Took a whack on the back of the head last night… Still, can't complain." She looks down at Sherlock, and her expression stiffens. "You've known him a while, right?"

"Yeah," Molly replies, setting her coffee and sandwich down on Sherlock's bedside table. "Why?"

"John says he proposed to me because he wanted to break into my boss's office." Janine looks down at the floor, her hands clasped in her lap, a sad smile on her face. "And I don't want to believe it but…I don't see why John would lie, but I guess…"

Everything suddenly becomes clear, and the knot in Molly's stomach loosens. Through her relief, she feels a sharp pang of sympathy for Janine. She knows that feeling, to have been duped by his tenderness (and with all the practice he's had on Molly, he must have been very convincing for Janine) only to have it all ripped away with one heartless reveal, like some sort of hellish magic trick.

"He's…not above using people," Molly says delicately.

Janine lets out a sad breath of laughter and tucks her hair behind her ear. Molly can see that her eyes are glistening with tears, but instead of shedding them, Janine forces out a smile and stands up.

"Well, I guess that's that then, isn't it?" She picks up her handbag and loops it over her forearm, then moves towards the door, but pauses, just before she leaves, turning to face Molly. "Has he ever used you?"

"Yeah," Molly replies. She looks down at her fingernails, knowing how foolish she must look, freely admitting that and still waiting by his bedside in last night's clothes.

"And you're okay with that?" Janine asks.

"He has his moments of decency," Molly says softly, her hands fidgeting, giving away her insecurities.

"Really? Genuine ones?"

Molly nods, and tries to pull all of Sherlock's most positive moments together into a collection, but most of them are from when he was a teenager: applying to St Christopher's for her; smuggling text books to her without her noticing; giving the popular girls at her school something to talk to her about as opposed to bully her about. She struggles to find more recent acts, their day solving crimes hovering somewhere between his own need to have a partner, a sense of duty towards her after everything and also, just maybe, the idea that she might enjoy it. It doesn't really matter, not at the moment at least. Looking at him, lying there pale and motionless, she knows that if she could just have him back, healthy and happy, she wouldn't change him for the world.

"I'll see you around," Janine says. "Tell him I checked in, won't you?"

Molly nods. "Yeah, see you."

Janine's heels click on the floor as she walks away, and Molly sits down in the vacated seat, pulling her sandwich towards her, mulling the conversation over in her head. She can't imagine how Janine must be feeling, and though Molly knows Sherlock has treated her terribly in the past, he has never been so cruel nor so calculating with her. With her it has always been drug fuelled spite or downright carelessness. She's glad she's not in Janine's shoes right now, even if she, Molly, does have the mammoth task of getting him healthy again ahead of her.

"You're awful," she says softly to him. "You're really awful, aren't you?"

* * *

She's been working the night shifts, having rejigged the rota, and has settled rather quickly into the routine of getting home at a quarter past seven, sleeping until one, then heading over to the hospital in time for visiting hours at two. He's yet to make a sound, but some of the colour has returned to his cheeks, and she's happy with that. It's a small step in the right direction.

When she walks in on the Thursday, one week on from the shooting, he's sitting up, eyes half open, and looking drained. Molly takes her coat off and hangs it on the back of the chair before she sits down, Sherlock's eyes following her every move, though he doesn't say anything.

"How you feeling?" Molly asks.

"Like hell," he says croakily, wincing, one hand shooting towards his ribs.

"They had to break them to get the bullet out," Molly tells him. "You'll be feeling it for a couple of months."

"Excellent," he says. For a moment, Molly thinks he'd rather she left him alone - he might be expecting another lecture from her, or he might just want some peace and quiet. But then his left hand finds hers and he links his fingers with her own, his skin warm, his fingers faintly trembling. She glances down at his morphine and notices that the dose has been lowered since yesterday. She hasn't touched it, figuring it best to leave his doctors to make their own judgements, but its presence in his room has been bothering her.

"Someone else hooked me up to that, not me," he says. Molly looks up from the drip and realises he's been watching her, can probably read her thoughts on it already.

"Yeah, they did," Molly sighs. "Which makes me think that your medical records are completely void of your history."

"Blame the record keeper," Sherlock says, closing his eyes and grunting as he readjusts his position. Even the slightest movement causes his facial muscles to twitch in discomfort, but Molly's not too worried about that now. She's more concerned about this imaginary record keeper.

"But what if the record keeper _did_ fill in all your history, only for someone, and I don't know who might have motivation to do this, but _someone_, might have hacked in and deleted all traces of addiction. All they'd need would be a hospital computer and a login, and there are plenty of unattended computers at night in hospitals. This _someone_ would just have to choose their moment."

"They most certainly would," Sherlock says, eyes still closed,

"But all it would take to set the record straight would be for someone with legitimate access to amend your history."

His lips twitch into a small smirk, but it fades quickly. "You _are _cruel."

"Says the man who proposed to a woman so he could break into her office."

"Ah."

"Yeah," Molly says coldly. "Ah."

"Didn't think you'd find out about that one." He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. "It was necessary, for the case."

"Just like getting shot was?"

He turns back to stare at the ceiling at this comment, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "That was, admittedly, not part of the plan."

Molly looks down at their hands and decides that she's probably said enough. The rest can wait until he's in a better condition. No matter how hard he tries to hide it, no matter how stubborn he is, she can tell he feels a million times worse than he's letting on. Given that she knows exactly where the bullet went in, what was damaged and what's going to be inflamed post-surgery, she can see precisely how much he's suffering, even from the way he breathes, shallow and gently, so as not to disturb his fractured ribs too much.

"You're not really going to change my records, are you?"

Molly looks up. His eyes are a little more like his own today, but there is still a slight glaze about them, which she knows is caused by the morphine. She can't blame him for that, but at the same time she knows that it's just dragging out the inevitable.

"D'you know how much of a shock to the system it is? Going cold turkey? In my current condition - "

"Yeah I _know_," Molly says sharply, cutting him off. He falls silent and she chews on the inside of her lower lip, weighing up her options. He stares at her as she thinks, awaiting her judgement, as though he's a criminal in the dock about to be dealt his sentence, and Molly sighs heavily. "They're going to reduce the dose you know," she says. "Wean you off it."

"Which'll be better than cold turkey."

"You did well on cold turkey before. Rehab worked wonders for you." Molly tells him.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't want to go back to that house." He closes his eyes and Molly's stomach churns unpleasantly. She had always assumed that his stint in rehab had been a complete success, that it had been difficult, but his recovery and continued sobriety upon his release were a testament to how good the place had been for him. But then she remembers a silent Sherlock, head resting against the window of the car as they drove back to London, and she wonders what the reality of those months had been like for him.

"Well what would you rather do? Go somewhere else?" She supposes that Mycroft already has a list of facilities as long as his arm, should Sherlock ever ask him for it, but she doubts that'll happen. She supposes she'll have to make the call herself and do some research before he even sets foot in one of them. She knows it's not going to be an easy ride, but she'd hate for him to suffer unnecessarily.

"Can't I just stay with you?" he asks quietly. "Like last time, when I came out."

Molly ponders this idea for a moment. Last time he'd been heroin free for months. By the time he leaves hospital, it will have been mere days, and only morphine free for _hours_. It's not quite the same, and she wonders whether recovery time will have any direct correlation with length of addiction. Last time he had been getting over years of abuse, this time, it's about a month's worth. She doesn't know enough about it to be able to make a judgement. Perhaps just the knowledge that he's cleaned himself up before will be enough to assure him that he can do it, and will speed things along a little. Even so, she's not sure him coming to the lab with her is the best idea. Especially not if she's still on the night shift when the storage cupboards are so conveniently unattended.

"I don't know," she says softly, glancing down to her knees. "We'll see."

He sighs, his nose scrunching up in pain. She'll have to talk to Mycroft about it, and John too. He's as much of a part of it this time around as she is. Perhaps John can keep him entertained while she works, and she can pick up the babysitting when she finishes her shift. Plus, with John at his side he could take on cases, which would sufficiently distract him from any cravings he might have. Just as long as none of the cases call for a relapse, _or_ a bullet through the chest for that matter. But John will be able to steer him away from anything too demanding. He will, after all, still be recovering from his physical injuries for months to come. She's not sure he's actually realised that yet. He's probably assuming that because his arms, legs and head are fine, then he'll be able to carry on as normal, with a little extra caution where his ribs are concerned, but that's not going to be the case at all. While his arms, legs and head are all, obviously, perfectly fine, they are also, again obviously, connected to his torso. The whole of him will be affected - one fast arm movement or one jerk of the leg will send pain shooting through him, and she knows he will learn that lesson the hard way several times before he finally gives in.

His hand is limp in hers, and she looks up at him. His eyes are closed, his breathing soft, shallow, and even, and Molly knows he has fallen asleep. She wonders for a moment whether he's faking it, to punish her for not immediately jumping through hoops to prepare for his recovery. She listens carefully, trying to filter out the bleeping of his heart monitor, and when she hears his gentle snore, she smiles softly. He swears blind that he doesn't snore, and so, whenever he fakes sleeping, he is completely silent. She's never told him of this glaring error in his performances, preferring to know for definite when she's in the dog house.

She reaches across to brush his hair away from his face, and he doesn't stir at the touch. She knows she will give in to him, will most likely go to Baker Street and move his essentials to her flat before he even leaves the hospital. She is, after all, far too used to letting him get his own way.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **I'm quite fond of this one. It might even be my favourite so far. Hope you like it. :)

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Of course he breaks out of hospital.

And of course, in the process, he does himself even more damage than he was initially admitted with.

When she arrives on the Friday afternoon, she finds him sedated, fresh out of surgery. John is sitting by his bedside, head in his hands, looking like he hasn't slept all night.

"What have the doctors said?" she asks, picking up his chart and surveying the updates on it. His morphine dose has been upped again, and she shakes her head and dumps the folder back into the caddy at the end of his bed.

"Internal bleeding. Ruptured all his stitches, the stupid git."

"But he'll be all right?"

"He's not leaving here for a few weeks," John says. "They were quite firm on that. Can't be trusted."

As much of a setback as it is, Molly can't help but think it might be a good thing. If they gradually take his morphine down (again) then he'll be well looked after as he slowly learns to function without it. He'll have round the clock care, daily visitors, and then, when he's well enough to leave, he might have even been drug free for a week or two. The optimist inside her can never be silenced, evidently.

"How long have you been here?" Molly asks, though she thinks she knows the answer. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hair is unkempt, as though he's spent all night running his hands through it in stress. His shirt is also crumpled and creased, which suggests to her that he's been wearing it a good twenty-four hours. On top of that, there is also the stack of empty polystyrene coffee cups, which are the biggest tell tale sign.

"All night. Paramedic brought him in, straight into surgery, _again_." He stifles a yawn and leans back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach.

"Go home," Molly says. "I'll call you when he wakes up. Promise."

"Sure?" John asks, looking between Sherlock's still form and Molly.

"Yeah," she says. "You look like you need a good sleep."

John nods, then pushes himself out of the chair, sighing heavily. It's only as he passes her that Molly notices his eyes are tinged red at the edges.

"He'll be all right you know," Molly blurts out. "He's survived worse." As soon as she says it, she wonders if she ought to have just ignored it altogether. Now he knows for definite that she's noticed that he's been crying, and she's not sure how John, who is usually so reserved, will respond to that.

"What? Oh, yeah, I know."

He gives her the briefest of smiles as he puts on his coat, then bids her farewell as he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. She sits down in the empty chair and sighs. He's lost all the colour that he'd regained, and when she takes his hand, her fingers instinctively moving to feel for his pulse, she notes that it is far weaker than yesterday. She's not worried however, not really. Well, she might be a little bit worried, but she knows in her heart of hearts that unless he does something horrifically stupid, then he'll pull through just fine.

* * *

"Just a little more," he says, reaching over to his drip. Molly slaps his hand away and he glares at her, his forehead shining with sweat. He presses his shaking hands to his face and Molly wheels the drip further out of reach.

"I think I should probably ask them to take it away," Molly says gently. He's on so little now that the fact of its presence is just a temptation and a torture as opposed to a comfort.

"Don't you _fucking dare_," he growls.

His attitude doesn't phase her, she's used to it by now, she's had years of practice, and she knows (or at least she keeps telling herself) that deep down he doesn't mean it. His heart rate is higher than usual, causing the nurses to purse their lips when they come round and check on him, Both she and John have been exchanging words with Sherlock's doctors, and between them, they've been sharing the load, ensuring he doesn't fiddle with his dose and managing his angry outbursts. Molly takes the full brunt of it, probably because he knows he can get away with murder when it comes to her, and as such he can vent all of his pent up frustrations on her when she turns up for the afternoon shift.

"It's got to happen at some point," she tells him. "And now's as good a time as any."

"There is no _good time_," he hisses. "Can't you see I'm in _agony_?"

"Well maybe you shouldn't have started up again," Molly says, picking up John's discarded newspaper and leafing through to the puzzle section. She glances down to the brainteasers, and tries to find one to take his mind off of things. "If you have one eleven minute hourglass and one thirteen minute hourglass, how do you measure fifteen minutes with both?"

"Fuck off and get a fucking watch."

Molly frowns disapprovingly and reaches down to her bag and starts rooting through it, looking for a pen, turning her attention to the crossword. She fills in the easiest answers quickly, then refocuses on the trickier clues.

"In music, a fast movement, usually in triple time."

"_Scherzo_," he says through his hands impatiently. She pens in the answer then moves on to the next clue. He seems far more inclined to crossword clues than brainteasers, so hopefully this will be able to sustain him for the next ten minutes. If she's lucky.

"South Pacific island, capital Papeete."

"Tahiti," he tells her, lowering his hands and reaching for his plastic cup of water. He downs the lot, then takes the jug, shakily refilling it while Molly keeps a careful watch on him, in case he drops it. He's already smashed the screen of his iPhone because of his jitters, and now he can't even whine about people on the internet because Molly's taken it away for repair.

They rattle through the last of the crossword clues and all too soon it's done and dusted. He becomes restless again quickly, fidgeting in his bed, kicking his blankets away. It's not even five minutes before the shivers set in and Molly has to rearrange his covers, tucking him in as though he were a sick child. The bruises on the crook of his arm have nearly faded completely, though his feet are still stained purple and blue, and Molly knows that it will be weeks before that particular damage is repaired in full.

She hates seeing him like this, so broken and pathetic and so _angry_, but she knows it's for the best. If she were a more sadistic person, she'd say he deserved it, but all she can do is cater to his every need as best she can. Despite everything, she knows she will jump through every hoop, if it just makes things a little bit easier for him. He's quiet for a long while, though Molly knows he's not asleep. She busies herself with the sudoku, glancing up every so often to see if he needs anything. His breathing is erratic, and she resists the urge to intervene, to ask him if he wants anything, because she knows she'll only get snapped at. If he's retreated into his mind palace, then he'll be even more aggravated, and she knows she's best off leaving him be.

At six o'clock, one of the nurses comes in with a tray of food and sets it on his table. It doesn't look particularly appealing, if Molly's being honest, but with the decrease in morphine has come a direct decrease in appetite. He's barely eaten for days, which is hardly unusual for him, but with his body burning so much energy while he's recovering, he needs to be eating more. They tried feeding him through a tube for the first few days, but he only threw it back up again. Molly's been bringing in snacks for him, biscuits mainly, anything that he might have a chance of holding down, but apart from the odd rich tea, which he'll only eat to shut Molly up, he's not eaten at all.

She knows that today will be no different, but she tries anyway. "Why don't you try some rice?" she asks, reaching forward and giving his forearm a gentle shake.

"No," he says, pulling his arm away from her. Molly sits back in her seat and sighs. She knows how much he's hurting, knows that he's pulled all the muscles in his stomach from vomiting, and that's _on top_ of the muscular pain he's experiencing now that he's nearly off the drugs altogether. He's lost weight since he's been in here, and she hates being able to see his ribs so clearly defined under his skin.

"What about the jelly? Jelly won't be too bad if it does…come back up." She tries to word it delicately but there's no point, not now, not after dozens of episodes involving cardboard sick bowls.

"I'm not a six year old," he mutters, resting his forearm over his eyes before letting out a soft groan.

"Want me to turn the lights down?" she asks.

"Off would be preferable."

"You only need to ask, you know," she tells him, getting up from her seat and crossing over to the light switch. She flicks it off, and the lights blink out, leaving them in darkness but for the small square of light coming in through the pane of glass in the door. "I don't mind."

"I ask too much of you already," he mumbles.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't want you better," she tells him. She sits on the edge of his bed and brushes his hair from his eyes. It's drenched in sweat, and she checks his saline bag to make sure he's still got plenty left. It's roughly two thirds empty, and she makes a mental note to ask the nurse for a fresh one when she comes round to take his blood pressure in a couple of hours.

"I know, but even so," he says, his voice barely above a whisper in the darkness. "It's not fair. Not again."

"Eat something," she says quietly. She places her hand on his bare shoulder and he hisses at her touch, her skin searing hot in comparison to his. "Please."

He sighs heavily and reaches down to the side of the bed, fumbling with the controls until he finds the button that raises him into a sitting position. Molly shifts the table to allow him a little more room and squints through the darkness to find his cutlery. He takes the first forkful of rice without argument, but when she tries for a second, he raises a hand halting her in her tracks, shaking his head.

"Have some tea," she says, picking up the cup and offering it to him. He takes it with shaking hands, and Molly keeps her hands poised underneath the cup, ready to catch it should he drop it. He swallows down one mouthful then passes it back to her, resting back against his pillows as she takes it from him. He's tired out from simple, everyday acts, and she knows the only way he can improve is by pushing himself, and eating more, but that puts him at a constant risk of setting back his progress if he can't manage to keep any of his food down. It's a fine line that she has to tread, and so she offers him a small piece of chicken next. He hesitates before he leans forward, allowing her to feed it to him, but he spends a good twenty seconds chewing it, his breathing laboured.

"More?" she asks, knowing that she's pushing her luck.

"In a minute," he says, reaching a hand out for his water. Molly passes it to him, her hands lingering on his until she is certain that he has a grip on it. He takes small sips until the cup is empty, but his stomach begins to gurgle loudly, and he tosses the empty cup onto the table, pressing his hands against his face, waiting for the sensation to pass.

Molly leans across to his bedside table, where a stack of sick bowls are on hand for such events, and she takes the topmost one, resting it in her lap until it becomes apparent that he needs it. She's hoping that he'll be able to hold out long enough for the sensation to pass, but his breathing has become fast and shallow, and she knows that that will do him no good at all.

"Slowly," she murmurs, resting one hand against his chest. "Come on. In." She breathes in and holds it. "And out."

He ignores her the first few times she does it, but then his lungs begin to slow, and after a minute or so, his breathing matches hers. The gurgling remains, but it's slightly more muted. and so Molly pushes the table to the end of his bed, giving up on the food. It's progress at least, and he's yet to spit swear words at her for trying to feed him, which is also a vast improvement.

She checks his temperature with the back of her hand on his forehead. He's boiling hot, and so she pulls his blankets down, then takes the flannel from his wash bag and heads over to the sink, drenching it in cold water and wringing it out, before returning to place it across his forehead. He hisses at the contact, but Molly holds the flannel in place as his skin adjusts to the change in temperature. He writhes in the bed, and Molly uses her free hand to try and keep him still, knowing he'll just end up damaging his ribs or rupturing his stitches _again_. He tries to push her away but he's far too weak for that. In his emaciated state, even she, despite her slight frame, can overpower him.

"Molly - "

"Sssh," she says softly. "It's for the best. Just hold on."

"It _hurts_."

"What does?"

"_Everything_."

Molly sighs. Even in the darkness she can see that he's clenched his fists, that they're shaking uncontrollably, and she wants to make it stop but she knows that all she can do is sit it out with him.

"I can't do this," he chokes, and he sits up, reaching towards the drip, but Molly pushes him back down firmly.

"Yes you _can_," she says. "You did it before."

"But - "

"No buts," she says, cutting him off. "You got better before and you stayed better for _years_, and if it hadn't been for this _stupid bloody case - _" She stops mid-sentence, as her skin starts to tingle and her throat tightens uncomfortably. She tries to swallow her emotions down but there's a lump in her throat that she just can't seem to shift.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. He covers his face with his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she says softly.

"No it's _not_," he snaps, his whole body tensing. As soon as the words are out he relaxes, sighing loudly, and Molly turns the flannel over. "I'm horrible to you when I'm like this."

"It's fine."

"It's _not_."

"I know you don't mean it," she tells him, peeling away a few damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead. "It's all right."

"You always save me, time and time and time again, and I don't know why you bother."

Molly blinks. She knows why she bothers, and she knows that he does too, he just doesn't understand it. It's sad to admit, but she would much rather go through this ten times over than have to live in a world devoid of Sherlock Holmes. And though she's not full of smiles right now, she knows that if he weren't alive, she'd never smile again.

"Come here," she says gently, easing him carefully into a sitting position. He doesn't put up any resistance, and Molly wraps her arms around him, ignoring the sticky heart monitor pads on his chest, all the tubes, and all the sweat. She presses a kiss against his temple and cradles his head in her hand, her fingertips gently massaging his skull to try and eke out some of the tension in him. "I will always be here when you need me," she whispers. "_Always_. There is nothing I want more in the world than for you to get better. Can you do that for me? Please?"

"Yeah," he breathes. "I think I can."

She kisses him again and he rests his forehead against her shoulder, his hot breaths fluttering over her collar bone. She can feel his muscles tensing and pulling under his skin, and she does her best to soothe him, but there's nothing that can soothe _that_. He lets out a gasp as a particularly aggressive twinge strikes his lower back, and Molly holds him more tightly, as his hands grip her shoulders painfully. There'll probably be marks, but she doesn't care. They can get through this together.

"Just think of something else," Molly murmurs. "Anything else, anything in the world."

He's quiet for a moment, but then he breaks the silence.

"You turn both hourglasses over. When the eleven minute one finishes, you turn that over again. When the thirteen minute one finishes, you turn the eleven minute one over once more. It'll have two minutes left in it. Fifteen minutes."

Molly laughs softly and kisses his jaw. "D'you want me to find the other ones? There were a couple more, I think."

"No," he says. "Just stay like this. This helps."

She's not going to argue, and so she continues to hold him until his breathing becomes steady and she hears the gentle snore that signifies that his body has finally succumbed to sleep. She carefully lays him back down on his bed, checks his temperature (he's cold again) and covers him with his blankets. He'll probably sleep through for a couple of hours now, until his muscle spasms become such that they're enough to wake him.

She stands up, chewing on her lower lip, and after a moment, she reaches across, disconnecting his morphine, then wheels the drip out of the room, knowing that he'll give her hell for it tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Another update! Aiming to post the rest on a daily basis but _am_ going to the pub on Thursday evening so you know, that might affect things. But hoping to get it out. Anyway, I'm off to play Lego Marvel and be a badass.

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"Two minutes thirty-eight seconds," she says, tapping her phone screen to halt the timer on it. "You're slipping."

He tosses the Rubik's cube back to her and she catches it, checking it over before she starts twisting and turning it, messing it up until it's a jumble of different colours all over again. When she's sure that he won't be able to right it with a couple of ridiculously easy turns, she passes it back to him. He frowns at it, examining it from every angle until he is satisfied, then starts working on it, his hands moving rapidly.

Molly starts the timer again and keeps an eye on it while he fiddles with the cube, the silence broken by the plastic blocks clicking and scraping against each other. She can't believe he isn't bored yet. They've been doing this for days now. After a few hours he will lose interest and throw the cube to the other side of the room, seeking another distraction, but while it works, it _really bloody works_. He barely says a word to her, focusing all of his attention on getting all the coloured squares exactly where he wants them. Molly's never completed a Rubik's cube in her life, so it is with a certain amount of envy that she sits there as he rapidly solves it time and time again.

There's a knock at the door and it opens slowly. Molly looks up, but Sherlock doesn't bother, either far too immersed in his puzzle-solving or simply not interested in visitors.

She doesn't recognise the middle aged man and woman who smile at her as they come in. The woman bustles over to Sherlock and places her hand on his forehead, pursing her lips.

"Well, I suppose you've been worse," she says judgementally.

Molly's mouth hangs open a little as she watches her, but then she catches a glimpse of her eyes. She recognises those eyes. She then looks towards the man, who's hanging back a little, his hands in his pockets. She recognises certain features of his face too - the mouth in particular, and she can hardly believe what she's seeing.

"How are you, son?" the man asks, leaning forward tentatively so he can see Sherlock.

"_Fine_," Sherlock replies sharply, his eyes still fixed on the Rubik's cube.

"Well he's certainly not lost his attitude," the woman says, her hands resting on her hips as she looks between Sherlock and her husband. "And are you going to introduce us to Molly at any point, or are we going to have to do that ourselves?"

Molly blinks. How Sherlock's mother knows who she is, she's got no idea. Not even John knew exactly how long the two of them had known each other until Sherlock's relapse, and never, not once in all the time she's known him, has Sherlock ever mentioned having any sort of relationship with his parents. She'd always assumed he'd been disowned, that his drug habit had pushed his family, all except Mycroft, to the limit. But no, here they are, visiting him in hospital, fussing over him, no less.

"Molly, mother, mother Molly…" Sherlock says vaguely, waving a hand between them.

Mrs Holmes rolls her eyes. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, dear. Mikey tells us you've been looking after him splendidly."

"Mikey?" Molly asks in disbelief. Then, remembering her manners, smiles politely. "I mean, it's good to meet you too."

"Mycroft," Sherlock mutters with a slight smirk, then tosses the completed cube to Molly. She looks down at the time on her phone.

"Two minutes and twelve seconds. I don't think you can do it."

Sherlock glares at her, and Molly starts rearranging the cube into a higgledy piggledy mix once more.

"What's he trying to do?" Mr Holmes asks, approaching the bed and resting his hands on the footboard.

"Solve it in less than two minutes," Molly tells him. "The closest he's come is two minutes and six seconds."

"Give it to Mum, she'll show you how it's done," he says to Sherlock, smiling cheerfully.

Sherlock scowls, and holds his hand out for the cube, but Molly delays, turning it a few more times until she's satisfied that it'll prove to be a suitable challenge for him.

"Oh put that silly thing down," Mrs Holmes says, taking the cube from Sherlock before he can even so much as assess a single side of it. She puts it on the table underneath the window and returns to his bed, sitting on the edge of it, apparently immune to the filthy looks he's casting in her direction. "How are you? _Really_?"

Sherlock issues an exaggerated sigh and leans back onto his pillows. "Well let's see. My insides have been torn to pieces by a bullet, I've suffered massive internal bleeding, my heart stopped for twenty three seconds when they brought me in and…oh yes, I'm on withdrawal."

"Well serves you right for getting mixed up in all that silly business again anyway," Mrs Holmes says. "The bullet I shan't blame you for, but the rest of it - "

"Ah, so one type of shooting up is acceptable while another isn't…" Sherlock replies sarcastically.

She swats his arm and frowns at him. "We didn't fly all the way back from Oklahoma so you could give us cheek, young man."

Molly looks down at the floor, biting her lip to keep herself from laughing. Of all the things she had expected of Sherlock's parents, she'd never expected this. She'd never expected that they'd be…well, _parents_. His father reminds her of her own, standing in the background and cheerfully going with the flow of things. That thought wipes the smile off her face, and she feels a sharp pang in her heart, as she always does when she thinks of her dad.

"Nobody _asked you_ to fly back from Oklahoma_._"

"Come on son," ~Mr Holmes says gently. "Don't be like that."

Sherlock sighs again, his fingers tapping rapidly against his blankets. He glances over to the Rubik's cube and then back at his parents.

"Have you been eating properly?" Mrs Holmes asks, scrutinising his lean arms. "You're looking _dreadfully_ thin."

Sherlock groans and covers his face with his hands, leaning his head back against his pillows. It's obvious that he doesn't have the patience to deal with this. Molly doesn't suppose that even on a good day, even when he's clean, that he has much patience for his parents. But today, with his body and his brain still trying to slowly repair themselves, it's a monumental task.

"He's been eating a little more the last few days," she says, saving him the trouble of answering. "His body hasn't been…welcoming food, as such, but he's getting better. You had half a slice of toast for breakfast, didn't you?" She looks at Sherlock, who is now staring at the ceiling, scratching the underside of his forearm absentmindedly. There are faint red marks there already, from nights upon nights of itching veins, and Molly reaches forward, moving his hand away. He tries to shake her off, but she's firm, and he huffs, giving in to her.

"Well half a slice of toast isn't going to put meat on your bones," Mrs Holmes tells him brusquely. "Is the food really awful here? I can make you something and bring it in if you like? I could go now, use your kitchen, maybe turn that oven on for the _first time _since you've lived there."

"That won't be necessary," he says stiffly.

"But sweetheart, you're absolutely - "

"_Molly's taking care of everything,_" he says through gritted teeth. "Stop _fussing_."

"Well you can't expect Molly to be bending over backwards for you all the time," she argues. "She's spending most of her time in hospitals at the moment, what with babysitting you and cutting up cadavers."

Molly's about to tell her that she doesn't mind, but is put off her train of thought by the alarming amount of information that Sherlock's mother has stored away about her in her brain.

"John's been here as well," Sherlock mumbles.

"Yes, but John's _married_ Sherlock, _newly_ married. You can't expect him to leave the wife at home in order to look after you."

"Actually, I think you'll find that it's a relief for him," Sherlock mumbles. Molly frowns. She's noticed Mary's absence, but had always assumed that she nipped in to see Sherlock when John was here, but from the sounds of that comment, she's not been here at all.

"Not all marriages are a disaster, Sherlock. You spend far too much time sticking your noses into affairs and money troubles. Your view of the world is _completely_ jaded. You might even like married life one day."

"Er, nope," he says, staring straight ahead. Molly smirks, wondering what on earth must be going through his mind at this point. The last thing he needs right now is nagging about marriage. She would have thought that his mother might have resigned herself to the idea that Sherlock's simply not built for relationships. He's never expressed any interest in anyone, apart from that one fleeting obsession with _The Woman_ and her phone, but she had always put that down to the puzzle, more than any real desire for romance.

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs Holmes sighs. "Won't you at least _try_ to settle down? It'd be _good_ for you!"

"Sounds dull," Sherlock responds in a clipped tone. "Have you tried harassing Mycroft?"

"Oh we both know he's a lost cause," she says impatiently. "Married to the job that one. Never had a friend in his life, doesn't do _people_."

"Nor do I," Sherlock responds coolly.

"And yet here you are with round the clock care," his mother argues, gently prodding his chest to accentuate her point. "You've got John and Molly coming in at all hours of the day and night. That landlady of yours keeping an eye on you as well, _and_ that Inspector. Has he found out who shot you yet?"

"No," Sherlock sighs, looking down at his hands.

"Well, you ought to tell him to pull his finger out," she says, bristling. Molly looks up and Mr Holmes sends a friendly smile her way, apparently also used to being the quiet one.

"Anything we can get for you, son?" he asks, taking advantage of the brief lapse in conversation. "I can pop out to the shop if you like?"

"No, _thank you_," Sherlock says firmly, affording just a shade more patience for his father. His fingers are twitching again and he balls his fists, then hides them under the blankets. Molly can see his muscles straining again, his jaw set as he clamps his teeth together. He's had too much disturbance for one day, and she knows it's only a matter of time before he loses patience entirely. He needs distractions, not something else to ignore, and though he's getting better every single day, he still can't cope with more than ten minutes worth of visitors who actually want to _talk_ to him.

"I'd best get off," Molly says, checking her watch. She stands and picks up her coat sliding her arms into the sleeves as Sherlock's narrowed eyes follow her every move.

"Oh don't go on our account, dear," Mrs Holmes says. "But if you want to have a bit of a break then we'll take good care of him while you're gone." She smiles kindly, and Molly immediately feels bad about the words that are about to come out of her mouth, but she knows that a white lie will hurt less than Sherlock losing his temper.

"Oh it's not that," Molly says, pulling the ends of her hair out from underneath her coat collar. "Visiting hours are nearly over. The doctors'll be coming round in a bit to run all their tests, do a physical assessment, take him for an x-ray…"

"Oh. Really?"

Guilt floods through her as Molly looks into Mrs Holmes' disappointed face, but in her peripheral vision she can see the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch upwards, just a little.

"Come on love. Let's head off and let him get some rest." Mr Holmes crosses over to Sherlock, leans down and kisses the top of his head. "You take care, all right? And we'll come and see you again very soon."

"Yeah," Sherlock says softly. "See you."

"And you'll call us, won't you? Let us know how you're getting on?" Mr Holmes adds, nodding encouragingly.

Sherlock sighs loudly. "Isn't Mycroft giving you scheduled updates?"

"But when was the last time he actually came to _see you_?" Mrs Holmes says frustratedly. "I want to know how _you_ are, not what the doctors have got to say."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"You know what I _mean_."

"I'll er, see you later on," Molly says, adjusting her bag strap on her shoulder. She'd rather leave before an argument breaks out, and hopefully her departure will cajole his parents into getting a move on.

"We'll walk out with you, Molly," Mr Holmes says. "Come on, put your coat on love."

Mrs Holmes follows orders, plants a kiss on Sherlock's cheek (which he tries to writhe away from) then heads towards the door. Mr Holmes holds the door open and she steps through, and Molly follows on afterwards, glancing back towards Sherlock before the door closes behind her.

"I know he's hardly the emotional sort," Mrs Holmes chatters as they walk towards the escalators. "But you do mean the world to him, you really do."

"Really?" Molly asks sceptically.

"Oh yes," she replies knowingly with a firm nod. "You're his oldest friend. In fact, before John came along you were his _only_ friend."

Molly doesn't quite know what to say to that. She knows he's never really had friends, but she'd never realised that his family ever even knew about her existence, let alone her job, the amount of time she spends with him, and all of what she's done for him. She supposes that Mycroft has handed over a throughly researched file on her, complete with photographs, tea and coffee preferences and probably even a report on her oyster card usage. She wouldn't put it past him.

They reach the outer doors of the hospital, and Molly fiddles with the strap of her bag.

"It was lovely meeting you," she says with a smile. "I suppose I'll see you again."

"Oh I'm sure of it, dear," Mrs Holmes says briskly. She pulls Molly into a rather unexpected hug. "Thank you for everything you've done for him. I'm pretty sure he won't say it, but we're both very grateful, and we know that he is too."

"It's all right," Molly says, as Mrs Holmes releases her. "It's what friends do, isn't it?"

"Quite," Mrs Holmes says with a smile. "Cheerio, dear."

"Bye now," Mr Holmes gives her a small wave, and they turn towards the direction of the tube station.

Molly bids them farewell and walks off in the opposite direction, doing a lap around the building before re-entering and heading back upstairs to Sherlock's room. He smiles when she walks through the door, and it's the first time she can remember him smiling since he's been in hospital. She ignores the flutter in her stomach and tells herself it's probably another one of his withdrawal symptoms - hallucinations or something else he'd find equally interesting.

"You're brilliant," he says. "Never thought you, of all people, would be so sneaky."

Molly frowns. "Oh _please_," she says, dismissively. "I've dealt with you for years. You don't think I'm that much of a muppet, do you?"

He doesn't reply to that, but reaches in the direction of the table by the window, making a grabbing motion with his hand. Molly heads over to it and picks up the cube, then sets the timer up on her phone, and tosses it to him. She sits down on the edge of his bed and watches while he works on it, his brow furrowed.

"They're nice, your mum and dad," she says, neatening up the edge of his blankets.

"Hmm…" is his only response. She smiles, knowing that he must hate it when people say that, but the truth is, he and Mycroft are so different to their parents that they come as a complete surprise, with their pleasantries and their worrying.

He completes the cube quickly, and Molly stops the timer, looking down at her phone.

"One minute and fifty-eight," she says with a smile. "Well done."

He tosses the Rubik's cube away and it lands with a clatter on the floor. "Well that's that done with," he says airily. His mood has improved drastically with his parents' departure, to the point where it's even surpassed his state before they arrived. She doesn't know what's gotten into him. He's still an off colour, and he still will flit between feverish high temperatures and teeth chattering shivers, but apart from the physical aspects of his withdrawal, which she knows will fade gradually, he nearly seems like he's back to his old self.

Molly puts her phone away, making a mental note to text Stacey later and tell her how ridiculously ordinary his parents are, knowing she'll receive plenty of exclamation and question marks in response. She's just on the verge of moving to the chair when she feels Sherlock's fingers, softly touching her own.

"Thanks," he says, his eyes (and they _are _his eyes now, no dilated pupils or uncharacteristic flashes of venom) boring into her own. "For everything."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **I am very poorly today so please accept my snivelling apologies if this chapter has a certain whiff of illness-induced apathy about it.

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He tosses and turns in his sleep, and hisses with pain when he puts too much weight on his ribs and wakes himself up. Molly thinks it might be time that she invests in a flat with a spare bedroom, or perhaps she should suggest that they both go and stay at Baker Street. John's old room is empty, so it would be more practical, but she doesn't say a word. She knows that this flat, this same old flat that she's had for years and filled with clutter, is as much of a home to him as Baker Street. He came straight here from rehab last time, settled himself in with no problems at all, forged his own comfort zone that he comes back to time and time again when he just wants to get away from things. She's glad, really, that he considers her home to be somewhere he can go, night or day, safe in the knowledge that she will always welcome him.

By the time she wakes most mornings, he's already out of bed and pacing around the living room. Sometimes she'll catch him staring out of the window to the street below, but mostly he'll be busying himself with something. This morning, he's trying to name all the capital cities of the world in alphabetical order. She smiles, and interrupts as he reaches Ljubljana.

"Coffee?" she asks.

"There's some in the pot," he says distractedly. "Lomé, _London_, obviously…"

Molly wanders into the kitchen, leaving him to it, and pours herself some coffee. It's quite nice, having him back in the flat if she's being honest. It's been years since he's stayed here for more than a couple of nights, and she hadn't realised quite how much she'd missed his company.

She drinks her coffee slowly, and it's strange to note the difference these days. Before, she would look forward to her day, hoping that Sherlock would drop in with some sort of mystery, or that Greg at least would turn up with something vaguely interesting for her. Since Sherlock's been off of casework however, her days have been dull and dreary, full of heart failures and car accidents, and nothing that really exercises her brain. The fact that she knows she won't be seeing Sherlock at all doesn't exactly help her mood, and once she gets to work, she can hardly wait for the day to be over. She worries about him when he's elsewhere, not sure whether anyone else realises just how closely they have to keep an eye on him.

Her text alert sounds, and Molly frowns at her phone, wondering whether it's Sherlock, simply being too lazy to call out to her from the lounge. But no, it's not. It's Greg.

_Bring Sherlock to the morgue. I'll see you there in an hour. _

Molly raises an eyebrow, types a quick reply, then heads back into the lounge, where Sherlock has reached Tripoli in his list.

"Lestrade's having you today," she tells him. "Sounds like he's got a case."

Sherlock's eyes light up, and his list of capital cities is abandoned.

As she waits for him to get out of the shower so she can use it, Molly smiles. Today is going to be a good day.

* * *

Stacey flounces down onto the sofa, and turns to look at Sherlock, who is sitting in the armchair, his eyes narrowed.

"You all right?"

"I _was_," he says carefully. "Molly, I'm on _withdrawal_, my patience is non-existent - "

"As opposed to the overwhelming patience you have most of the time?"

He smirks, only briefly, then continues. "And you think it's a good idea to let _her_ come round."

"_Her_ has a name," Stacey says, scowling at him before she flicks out her foot to playfully kick his shins.

He rolls his eyes, and Molly smiles. She knows perfectly well that he doesn't mind Stacey's presence at all. Half the reason Molly invited her over was because she was sure Sherlock was getting bored of being passed between the same old babysitters each day. He bickers with Stacey and that in itself is enough to distract him from any persistent cravings.

"Got any biscuits?" Stacey asks, turning to Molly, who frowns.

"I thought we were ordering a Chinese?"

"Yeah but that won't get delivered for at least an hour. Plus I want biscuits."

Sherlock skews his lips, then pulls out a half full packet of chocolate digestives that he's had tucked away between his thigh and the side of the armchair. He tosses them to Stacey and she sends an over the top grin his way as she pulls the wrapper off of them.

"You're looking well," she says after her first mouthful of biscuit.

"Really?" Sherlock says sarcastically. Admittedly he's not looking his best - sallow skinned, still fairly gaunt as well, despite Molly's best efforts to feed him up. He has good days and bad days with food, and if he's been munching chocolate biscuits on the sly, Molly very much suspects that this is a good day. If she's lucky she might even be able to tempt him with a bit of chow mein or maybe some prawn toast.

"Well," Stacey says with a shrug. "Last time I saw you, you'd been shot."

He tries to fight off a smile but is unsuccessful. He is entertained by Stacey's bluntness, Molly knows. She's the only friend who Sherlock has ever had any time for. And by time, she means he will sit in the same room for more than three minutes without making up an excuse to leave, _or_…insulting them until _they_ leave.

"How's the barman?" Sherlock asks, as Toby hops into his lap and curls up, making himself comfortable. Sherlock's long fingers, which are still prone to tremors, scratch the cat behind the ears as though on autopilot.

"What gave it away?" Stacey demands, looking down at herself as though she'll be able to spot the clue.

"You smell of beer and yet you've not been drinking," Sherlock says casually. "And Molly hasn't noticed it, so it must be commonplace by now."

Stacey stops chewing her biscuit abruptly, then lifts her top to her face and inhales. While she does this, Sherlock catches Molly's eye, his lips twitching at the corners, and she understands with crystal clear clarity the silent order that's being issued.

_Don't tell her you told me_.

"Do I really stink of beer?" Stacey asks, leaning towards Molly and holding her top out for Molly to sniff.

"I can't smell it from here," Molly says, recoiling, not particularly keen on finding out either way whether she smells of beer. "But you know what his sense of smell's like. I wouldn't worry too much."

Stacey scowls and retreats to her end of the sofa, still sniffing at her top, trying to detect the faintest hint of beer. Eventually, she gives up with an impatient sigh, and drops the collar of her now stretched and out of shape top back to its normal place. "Well he can't start coming to my place," she says to Molly, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I don't want him knowing where I live. He might turn up uninvited. Yuck."

Molly rolls her eyes and grabs the takeaway menu on the coffee table, passing it to Stacey so she can choose what she wants. After much fussing (most of it coming from Sherlock) Molly places the order, then puts her feet up on the coffee table, knowing that the most trying part of the evening is over already. They've planned to watch a film, but she doesn't know how well that will go down with Sherlock. He seems content enough to sit there scratching Toby's ears for the time being at least, so maybe he can survive a couple of hours of film. Molly doesn't expect that she'll even manage to stay awake for the duration - she's been sleeping so badly since Sherlock's been staying here, and she finds looking after him so tiring (though she would never say that to him, or anyone for that matter, because she really _really_ doesn't mind doing it) that by the time the clock ticks past ten, she's usually fallen asleep on the sofa. She stays quiet for the most part while they wait for the food, her head resting on her hand as Sherlock infuriates Stacey.

"Thirty-two," he says.

Her face falls immediately. "How did you know?"

"You're predictable. Choose another number."

Stacey pauses, looks up to the ceiling for a moment, then says: "Got one."

"Eighty-three."

"No," Stacey lies unconvincingly. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and she sighs. "But _how_ do you guess it? It can't be luck, can it?"

"Of course it's not _luck_," Sherlock says impatiently. "It's _skill_."

"Can you predict lottery numbers?"

"Yep," he says, staring straight ahead. "Give me fifty quid and I'll tell you Saturday's draw results."

Stacey looks towards Molly, her eyes wide. "Can he really? Or is he just trying to con me?"

Molly sighs. "If you're stupid enough to _actually_ believe that he can do that," she says, "then you deserve to be conned."

Stacey folds her arms and glares at Sherlock, who merely shrugs innocently. "Worth a try," he says.

The food eventually arrives, and for the first time, Molly doesn't have to talk Sherlock into eating. He sits down at the table with her and Stacey, and while he hardly gorges on the offerings, he still picks at things. At one point he heads up to the roof for some fresh air (and possibly, for a break from Stacey, who is yammering about her new research role between mouthfuls of rice) and returns five minutes later, his skin a slightly healthier hue, and sits down again, making a second attempt to tackle the food on his plate.

It's nothing like a full sized meal, but it's a further step in the right direction, and Molly wonders whether Stacey's presence is enough of a distraction from his withdrawal that he's able to eat more, and perhaps exercise more patience too. Maybe that's all it takes, a distraction, something new in the evenings to keep his mind active, so he doesn't feel overwhelmed by the physical constraints of his recovery.

He agrees to settle down with them and watch a film, and Molly half expects him to throw a fit when Stacey plonks herself down in the armchair that he claims as his own whenever he's here, but instead he curls up on one end of the sofa while Molly sorts out the DVD player, and he taps the sofa cushion a couple of times before Toby jumps up to join him. Molly smiles and sits down on the other end of the sofa, feet tucked under her. She supposes that he finds Toby's presence to be therapeutic, but she never really had him down as a _pets_ person. She knows he had a dog when he was a child, but if they ever see dogs in the street, he never stops to make a fuss of them, nor does he ever comment on them with any sense of adoration. He doesn't have much decent to say about cats, either, showing little to no interest in any of the ones that roam around the corridors of the apartment block, yowling until their owners let them in.

She thinks Toby might just be an exception. In any case, he appears to be very good for him.

Naturally he thinks the entire film consists of idiots doing idiotic things, and even spends five minutes talking loudly over the dialogue to explain exactly why the science of one scene is completely ridiculous. Stacey, to give her due credit, refrains from telling him to shut up the first couple of times he does it, and chooses to dig her nails into the arm of her chair instead. However, when he starts lecturing them on why the people in the movie are running the wrong tests to determine how long a murder victim's been dead, she loses her temper.

"Sherlock, we _know_. What the fuck d'you think we did at university? D'you have any idea what we _do_ for a living?"

"Well I thought you learned the sacred art of getting absolutely hammered and earning yourself discounts at high street stores through whatever means _necessary_."

Molly sniggers and Stacey turns to stare at her.

"Really?"

"Sorry," Molly says. "Watch the film though." She nods to the screen and the argument dies down. Sherlock doesn't utter another word throughout the remainder of the film. When it finishes, Molly can barely contain her yawns, and Stacey takes her tiredness as a hint that it's time to call it tonight.

"I'll see you soon," she says as she pulls on her coat.

"Yeah," Molly replies, standing up. "See you soon."

Stacey hugs her and pauses by Sherlock. For a moment, Molly thinks that he might have a hug bestowed on him as well, and judging by the frown on his face, he has drawn the same conclusion. They're both wrong however. Stacey punches him softly on the upper arm, and offers him a small smile.

"Glad you're getting better," she says.

"Thanks," he says uncertainly, avoiding Stacey's gaze, his eyebrows still drawn together in suspicion.

She shakes her head in amusement and steps over his outstretched legs, Molly following her as she heads for the door. They make vague promises to see each other again very very soon, which both of them know will be put back weeks and weeks until they both finally get so fed up that they officially plan something, and just as Molly's about to close the door behind Stacey, she turns around.

"One question," she says, holding up a hand to halt Molly.

"What?"

"_Where is he sleeping_?" she whispers, so quietly that Molly can barely hear her.

"Bye, Stacey," she says, and before Stacey can persevere with her enquiries, Molly closes the door, locks it, then puts the safety chain in place. She hears Stacey huff through the wood then trudge away, disappointed with Molly's refusal to answer. She smiles and heads back towards Sherlock.

"You okay?" she asks, looking down at him. He's tired, she can tell, just from the fact that his reactions are minutely slower than usual. She's tired as well if she's honest, and decides that she can wash up the empty drinks glasses in the morning.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing his face with one hand.

"Bed?" Molly asks, holding out her hand.

Sherlock nods, and Toby stretches out on his lap. Sherlock slides him onto the sofa cushion next to him, earning a disapproving look from Toby, and then takes Molly's outstretched hand. She pulls him up then guides him towards the bedroom. She takes her pyjamas from under her pillow, heading for the bathroom so she can get changed and brush her teeth, and by the time she returns, longing for her mattress, he is already fast asleep, snoring gently, and she knows that she won't hear a peep out of him for hours.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **So this chapter _was_ going to be the penultimate chapter, but then my brain intervened. Next chapter will be the penultimate one, and Saturday's will be the final one. :)

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Saturday mornings are spent in bed. He's still fragile, but he's almost back to his old self. His withdrawal symptoms have mostly faded, but the recovery from his gun shot wound and the massive internal bleeding that followed because he was too stupid to stay in hospital lingers around. As such, by the time they reach the weekend, he's absolutely shattered, and will sleep for fifteen hours, uninterrupted.

Molly doesn't mind. She likes a lay in, though usually she ends up rising long before he does. She'll use the time he's asleep to go to the shops, tidy up the flat, and just generally reset everything for the week ahead while he's out of the way.

This morning, however, they are both rudely awoken by the sound of his phone ringing.

He fumbles with it as he tries to answer, and Molly frowns, bleary eyed at the disturbance. She glances over at the clock on her bedside table and groans when she realises that twenty past ten is probably a perfectly reasonable hour to be making a phone call. Not that Sherlock's phone ever attracts perfectly reasonable callers, that is. He seems to be just as unimpressed with the wake up call as she is, phone held loosely against his ear, arm slung over his eyes to block out the light sneaking through the gaps in the curtains.

"I sound tired because you just _woke me up_," he says impatiently. His voice has a different quality when he's laying down, more throaty, and he sounds almost like he has a cold. She listens to the fast paced chatter coming from the other end of the line and smiles into her pillow, knowing that there's only one person who could be commenting on his tiredness at this hour.

"I've already told you, she's working." He pauses. "People _die_ on Christmas day, mother. You know that, don't you? How kind and considerate a world that would be if the Grim Reaper also took Christmas off."

A huffy reprimand follows his bout of sarcasm, but Molly's not concerned by that. What she's more interested in is the fact that she seems to be the topic of conversation. And, on top of that, in the same conversation, Christmas day is also involved.

"Well she's not going to want to come along after she finishes," Sherlock says with a sigh. "She'll be too tired. She's not going to want to travel."

Molly listens with interest, her heart sinking with every word that comes out of Sherlock's mouth. It sounds as though she's being invited to the Holmes residence for Christmas. She's not working, and, if Sherlock had offered, she would have jumped at the opportunity. Her Christmases are always spent in front of the telly or else at Stacey's house with her family. The first Christmas after her dad died, Molly had been invited by Stacey's parents to join them. Of course it hadn't been the same as her previous Christmases, but they'd made a real effort, bought her a few presents, and Stacey's mum had laid on a fantastic roast. But her dad hadn't been there, and that had been, well, awful really. No other way to look at it. The following year had been much better, and the year after that, she had twisted Sherlock's arm into having Christmas dinner with her. It hadn't exactly been traditional, but it had been nice all the same.

"Well she's got plans already, I think." He pauses again, rolling his eyes as Mrs Holmes responds, words coming at a mile a minute by the sounds of things. "Yes, I _think_ so. She's nodding, so yes, she has plans."

Molly has done no such thing, and she sees him peep out at her from under his forearm as he tells a downright lie, inspecting her reaction. She doesn't respond however, and bundle up her pillows, resting her chin on them as the rest of the conversation takes place, sparking little interest from her.

"Yes I'm fine," he sighs. "Good_bye_."

He ends the call and drops his phone down onto the duvet, rolling over so he can look at her.

"She's been pestering me for weeks," he explains. "She wants you to come and stay for Christmas, but I've made excuses for you. You're welcome, by the way."

"Oh should I be thanking you?" Molly asks.

"Well _yes_," he says with a confused frown. "Mycroft's going to be there. And my parents." He pulls a face. "Why, you didn't actually _want_ to come, did you?"

"Doesn't matter," Molly sighs, turning her head away from him and resting it on the pillow. Of course he thought he was doing her a favour. She doesn't know why he expects her to harbour the same level of distaste for his family that he does, but even Mycroft she can get along with fairly okay, providing he's not dishing out orders as though he thinks he's the Queen of Sheba.

"Molly, they'll be making us play _charades_."

She doesn't respond, though she can't stop her lips from twitching at the idea that one of Sherlock's biggest fears is having to sit through a few games of charades. He places a warm hand on her shoulder, and she bites the inside of her lip. Physical contact from him is so rare, especially now that he's clean again, that she has to focus on reality ten times harder than usual, or else lose herself entirely to the sensations that fizz through her when his skin touches hers. She rolls onto her back and he's looking down at her, head propped up on his elbow, fingers scrunching in his hair.

"It's not just conversations with my mother that I'm trying to save you from," he says, though his words sound rather distant to Molly. She can't keep her mind focused when he's so close to her, when she can see every single hue in his irises, and every single eyelash.

"No?" she says disbelievingly.

He shakes his head. "Something else is going to be going on," he tells her. "And I want to keep you as far away from that as possible."

"What kind of something else?" she asks, frowning at him.

"I can't tell you."

"Are you going to do something stupid?"

"When have you ever known me to - " He stops abruptly when he notices her raised eyebrow, his lips curving into the smallest of smiles before he becomes serious again. "Potentially, yes. John doesn't know about it, Mycroft doesn't know. Only me."

"Right," Molly replies. "Does it involve drugs?"

"Not for me, no."

"Oh bloody hell…" she says softly. She doesn't know if that's worse than the answer she had feared the most. Christmas day is going to be punctuated with chemical concoctions it appears, so maybe she _is_ best staying far far away from the Holmes residence this year. It doesn't sound like Sherlock's planning on playing many rounds of charades at any rate.

"Look," he says with a sigh. "Some of the less _pleasant_ people I deal with have…well, they collate a list of _pressure points_ for their victims." He chews on his lip while he contemplates his next words, and Molly lays there silent, worry growing and curdling in the pit of her stomach. He is absolutely going to do something stupid, she can sense it. He wouldn't be being so serious with her if he didn't think there was a chance that it might all go to hell in a hand basket.

"I don't want anybody to ever use you as a pressure point against me," he says. "So keeping you at a distance might be required sometimes, for your own protection. And this is one of those times."

"What the hell are you getting involved in?" she whispers.

"Doesn't matter," he tells her, flopping back down onto the mattress. "Besides, if it _were _just Christmas dinner then I'd be dragging you to my parents' house whether you like it or not. I'd need someone to keep me sane."

She smiles reluctantly at this, and he doesn't say anything else, his breathing gradually slowing. She knows he must be dropping off to sleep. She decides to make her request when he is at his most amiable, his most pliable, in that relaxing state of peacefulness that hovers on the fine line between drowsiness and unconsciousness.

"Can we do something on Christmas eve then?"

"Like what?"

Molly shrugs, knowing full well that he's not looking at her and can't even see the gesture. "I dunno," she says. "Just something."

"Yeah," he says, stifling a yawn. "Whatever you want."

Molly smiles, and as he snores gently next to her, she begins to mentally make preparations for what is to be the only decent bit of her Christmas this year.

* * *

"Give it here," he says impatiently, taking the Christmas tree from her and lifting it onto his shoulder. She's about to protest, tell him that he can't possibly lift an entire tree in his current state of health, but she realises quickly that he won't listen. She follows him through the busy crowds, weaving in and out of groups of shoppers, dodging to avoid masses of gift bags and last minute purchases. She's already had everything else delivered, having given Sherlock the rather onerous task of staying in for deliveries this past week. He hasn't fussed too much, though he has called her an awful lot while she's been working, asking for a commentary on her autopsies. The Christmas tree, however, has been put off and put off until today, after which there'll be no point in getting one at all. She supposes the only good thing is that now she's off for the whole day, and as such can take her time with it. And not, only that, but the real trees are being sold off for a pittance, so she's managed to get herself a real whopper without even having to break a fiver.

The stand is already waiting by the window in her flat, and Sherlock immediately dumps the tree into it, then gets down onto his knees so he can tighten the fixings. He then rips the netting off of it, allowing the branches to fall into their natural shape, and Toby comes to inspect the tree, winding his way around Sherlock's legs as he meows at the pine needles.

Molly hands him the box of fairy lights and he looks down at them, then back at her.

"You are joking, aren't you?"

"Nope," she says with a grin, pulling lengths of tinsel out of the large carrier bag that is home to all of her Christmas decorations. "You said, remember…_whatever you want_."

He rolls his eyes at this. "I just carried your bloody tree up fourteen floors, I shouldn't have to decorate it as _well_."

Molly pulls a face. "We took the _lift_."

"Yes," he says stiffly. "And I carried it the whole time we were in the lift."

She shakes her head, and after a moment he huffs and collapses into his armchair, pulling the fairy lights out of the box and untangling them.

"It's the least you can do," she reminds him. "Seeing as you _are_ deserting me tomorrow. On _Christmas day_."

"Yeah all _right_," he says, his eyebrows drawn together in a concentrated frown while he tackles a particularly grim looking cluster of lights and twisted wire. He has been surprisingly cooperative these past few days, and she wonders if he really is feeling some remorse about excluding her from the Christmas celebrations. But then she reminds herself that he has something incredibly stupid planned and part of her considers calling Mycroft to give him a heads up because she _really_ doesn't want to have to deal with the fall out of Sherlock's stupidity having catastrophic consequences. But, as ever, she keeps her promises to Sherlock, and doesn't utter a single word to anybody, and even goes so far as to tell John that the reason she won't be joining the rest of them is because she's working. Sherlock had given her an approving look, and even gone so far as to compliment the smoothness of her lie when they were alone later on that evening. He's a bad influence on her, she knows it only too well.

At last he manages to turn the bundle of wires into one long string of lights, and begins to wrap them around the tree, huffing and puffing irritably every time the wire gets caught on a branch. Molly finds it most amusing, and when he's finished and switched the lights on, she tosses him the tinsel. He sighs, but places it on the tree regardless, while Molly ferrets through her bag searching for her best baubles.

Soon enough, they have a rather decent looking tree, and Molly's heart swells a little at the sight of it. Yes, she will be spending tomorrow alone, but she'll have the tree, and no doubt Sherlock will be texting her, so it's not going to be a completely terrible day. Or at least she hopes not. At the very least there ought to be something good to watch on the telly. That's the one thing she's always been able to rely on at Christmas.

They order some food in and spend the evening in front of the telly, all the programmes filled with bright Christmassy colours and even more sentiment than usual. During the particularly nauseating bits (which Molly _loves_) she looks over to see Sherlock wrinkling his nose in distaste, which only causes her to grin stupidly.

By half past eleven, the only half decent thing the channels have to offer is a repeat of a Victoria Wood special that Molly's seen half a dozen times before, and so she gives in, turning the TV off and calling it a night. Sherlock joins her shortly after, climbing into bed next to her without saying a word. She lays awake on her side, trying to switch her brain off so that she might get a half decent night's sleep, but she can't help worrying about whatever it is he's got planned.

When the church bells chime in the distance, she counts each loud _dong_, until she reaches twelve, and silence falls.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she whispers.

"Merry Christmas, Molly." He loops his arm over her waist and pulls her back against his chest, then presses a kiss to her shoulder. She doesn't know what to do or say. She's never been this close to him in all her life. After the shock lessens, she finds herself lacing her fingers with his, and he soon falls asleep.

She, however, cannot stop thinking about tomorrow, and more specifically, how affected he might be when he returns to her on boxing day.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **I broke my streak. :( But I was really rather ill so I guess that's a decent enough excuse. Final chapter tomorrow though. Almost at the end!

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He's gone before she wakes up on Christmas day, though admittedly she doesn't surface until half past ten. She doesn't recall hearing him stir, and so it's with a tinge of disappointment that she gets out of bed and pulls on her dressing gown, securing the belt tightly around her waist.

He's left coffee in the pot, which is good of him. It's still fairly warm so he can't have been gone for too long. She pours herself a cup and leans back against the counter, sipping it slowly. She can hear the kids in the flat above laughing and playing with all sorts of loud and irritating toys, while a needless blasting of Slade's _I Wish it Could be Christmas Everyday_ makes its way up through the floorboards from downstairs. Bah humbug indeed.

Molly trudges into the lounge, coffee in hand, slippers slapping against the floor. She sits down on the sofa, unused to how quiet her flat is. He's been here for months, and along with him comes a whole host of visitors - John, Greg, Mrs Hudson, Stacey, and sometimes, on a rare occasion that leaves them both in a sour mood, Mycroft. But now, for the first time in a long time, it's just her, on her own. Except for Toby, that is. He hops up onto the sofa next to her, nuzzling his head into her dressing gown as she strokes him absentmindedly.

It's a long while before she notices the small, neatly wrapped present sitting on the coffee table. She frowns, then reaches forward, wondering whether it's for her, of it's Sherlock's simply forgotten to take it to his parents' house with him. She wasn't expecting anything from him to be perfectly honest. She bought him a couple of things - a new shirt, a few books, and some posh, imported coffee, which she thinks might actually be what she's drinking right now - but hadn't done so with any expectation of receiving a gift in return.

It's a small square box, the shiny gold paper impeccably folded, the tape applied so well that it's almost invisible. It's bound with a thick, satin ribbon, which is beautiful shade of crimson, and Molly doesn't want to ruin any of it. She's already concerned that she might have left fingerprints on the paper, and tries to handle it as little as possible. There's a small, rectangular tag attached to the present, and Molly turns it over, hoping to see some clarification of who the intended recipient is.

_Merry Christmas_

She bites her lip. It hardly clears things up, but she'd have thought if he were going to his parents', that he'd have more than one gift, and while _he_ might be able to deduce which one is for which person, once they're all stacked under the tree it might become a bit confusing for everybody else. Before she can dissuade herself, her finger is sliding under the folded paper, unsticking the tape, and opening up the parcel to reveal a black velvet box. She takes off the lid slowly, excitement building in the pit of her stomach, and gasps when she sees what's inside.

On a long and delicate chain hangs a solid silver heart. Not a cartoon style heart, but a _heart _heart, as in ventricles, atria, the lot. It's only a flat cut out, nothing too eye-catching, but Molly thinks it's completely and utterly beautiful. There is a single, shining jewel set into where the pulmonary artery would be, and on closer inspection, she realises with a mingled sense of horror and disbelief that it's actually a diamond.

It's with shaking hands that she takes the necklace from the box and fastens it around her neck, fumbling with the clasp until she finally manages to get it hooked through the tiny loop on the other end of the chain. She is in no doubt now. The gift was definitely intended for her. She can't imagine him giving something like this to anybody else, nor can she imagine anybody else actually appreciating it. He knows her quirky taste far too well, though the necklace's surprise appearance does beg the question of when he managed to go out and buy it. He's been under guard twenty-four/seven, so he must have dragged John, or even Greg along to find it.

She jumps up from the sofa and rushes into the bathroom, yanking the pull cord for the light then inspecting her new necklace in the mirror. It's absolutely gorgeous, even when it's teamed up with a dressing gown and messy hair. She can't withhold her grin, and she heads off to find her phone, a spring in her step as she crosses the lounge. She types a rapid text, not caring that he'll probably roll his eyes at it.

_Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!_

She hits send, and the message whooshes off into the ether, but it's not long before she gets a reply.

_You're welcome. Thank you for my gifts. The coffee is delicious._

She smiles. Even on text he sounds stilted when affording pleasantries. He's always struggled with niceties, but she appreciates the supreme effort that must have gone into typing that text, especially when considered with the fact that sixty miles away, his patience is being tested to the very limit by his family. Her text alert sounds again, and she looks down at her phone.

_Mother has asked me to wish you a very merry Christmas. _

Molly grins, and realises that maybe, she won't be so alone this Christmas after all.

* * *

She wakes on boxing day and stretches out in the empty bed. Yesterday hadn't been too much of a trial after all. Sherlock had gone quiet in the evening, and she had spent a good few hours fretting over what his stupidity would lead him too, but she hasn't heard anything, and so she assumes that no news is good news. She rolls over and grabs her phone from the bedside table, just to double check, but the only message is from Stacey, informing Molly that she'll be arriving shortly with enough bacon to feed a small army. The message arrived twenty minutes ago, so it's with a slight grumble that Molly forces herself out of bed and heads for the shower.

She can't push him from her mind, no matter how hard she tries. She's worried about him, but doesn't want to call him in case he's busy. She doesn't know exactly what he was planning, so she has no way of knowing whether she ought to be worried by now or not. After she's dressed, and her wet hair is secured in a messy bun on top of her head, she decides to send him a text. She just wants to hear something from him, an indication of when he's going to be coming home would be nice.

_How was yesterday? Manage to survive? x_

She doesn't know why she adds the kiss on the end. Normally she doesn't with him. He's the only one she doesn't add kisses for actually. She supposes it's a pride thing. That and she knows they'll go ignored anyway. It's not worth the effort. But this time, because it's out of the ordinary, he will pay attention. He will know that she's worried, and maybe that will encourage him to get in touch a little more quickly.

It's a long shot, but at least it's a shot.

She hits send just as there's a knock at the door, and her heart leaps in her chest, but when she opens the door, she sees Stacey standing there, bright orange Sainsbury's carrier bag bulging with food, wearing what looks like a brand new coat. Molly can't help the fact that her face falls at the sight of her, and Stacey notices immediately, raising one eyebrow.

"Expecting somebody else?"

Molly sighs and stands aside, allowing her room to enter. "I haven't heard from Sherlock," she tells her. "I'm worried."

Stacey shrugs. "He's probably in a food coma like most people," she says simply. "You could do with one of those."

Molly glances down to the carrier bag in Stacey's hand and sees bacon, sausages, mushrooms, eggs, a loaf of crusty bread - all the makings of a fantastic breakfast. Though it does little to ease her worry, it does give her something else to think about as Stacey clatters about in the kitchen, no doubt making one hell of a mess which Molly can worry about later.

Soon enough, the pair of them are sat at the table, obscenely large breakfasts in front of them, the baked beans dangerously close to dripping off the edge of the plate. Stacey has managed to get hold of a couple of Christmas cracker, probably left over from her parents' set yesterday, and it's with a tinge of reluctance that Molly allows herself to be dragged into the Christmas spirit, pulling her cracker with Stacey, putting on her paper hat and then reading out the joke (_What happened to the frog whose car broke down? He got toad away._) with a groan of non-amusement. She spares approximately three seconds to take a look at the small plastic yoyo she received as her prize, then pulls Stacey's cracker with her, resting her head in her hands as Stacey cackles loudly at her joke.

In times like this, Molly is amazed they ever let Stacey become a doctor.

The breakfast does, admittedly, make her feel slightly better. Perhaps her worrying was exacerbated by hunger, or maybe it's just because it's the first time someone's actually cooked for her (takeaways not included) since she can remember. She checks her phone every couple of minutes, keeping one on the screen while she carves up the sausages and listens to Stacey telling her about her granddad falling asleep halfway through eating his Christmas pudding, but before she reaches the end of the story, she stops, watching Molly with an uncharacteristically shrewd expression.

"What's the big deal? Where is he, anyway? Would have thought after everything he might have spent Christmas with you."

"He went to his parents," Molly tells her.

"What, and you weren't invited?"

"Oh no, I was invited," Molly tells her, but before she can continue, Stacey cuts across her.

"So why the hell didn't you go? I mean _him_, asking you to come and stay with his family for _Christmas_, that's fucking _huge_. That's as close as you're ever going to get to _Molly I love you, Molly I need you_." She pulls a stupid expression as she talks, both hands resting over her heart, an impossibly wide grin spread across her face.

Molly rolls her eyes. "His _mother_ invited me. Sherlock told her I was working."

Stacey frowns. "He did what?"

Molly doesn't bother to repeat herself. "He thought he was doing me a favour," she tells her. "Because he hates it there so he assumed I would too. Because, you know, spending Christmas with Toby and the telly was a whale of a time." She decides to leave out the part where he left her out of plans for her own safety, figuring that Stacey doesn't really need to know about that. Granted it'll mean that she won't understand what the hell Molly's worrying about, but Molly doesn't have any time to be concerned over that. She's got enough on her plate.

"It's kind of sweet in a way," Stacey says, scooping up a forkful of beans. "I mean, he probably thought he was being completely self-sacrificing. Even if he was, in fact, being a complete wanker."

Molly slowly makes her way through the rest of her breakfast, and is amazed when she manages to swallow down her last bite of toast, signalling the end of her effort. She sips her tea, slumped in her chair, still periodically checking her phone, and _still_ there is no contact from him.

"That's a nice necklace," Stacey comments, her feigned casualness completely transparent. "When did you get that?"

Admittedly, Molly does smile a little at this. She reaches up to fiddle with the pendant, then says, "Sherlock got it for me. For Christmas."

Stacey shakes her head in disbelief. "Oh he doesn't _do_ relationships Stacey. He's not _interested_ in that Stacey. He doesn't _see me_ like that, Stacey," she says mockingly. "Honestly - "

"But - "

"_No_," Stacey says firmly, cutting her off. "You were invited to spend Christmas with the fam, and the only reason you aren't there now is because he thought he was doing you a solid, _and _he buys you a really pretty necklace and _holy shit_ does that pulmonary artery have a fucking _diamond_ set in it?"

Molly laughs and buries her face in her hands. Stacey is the only one of her friends to actually _get_ Sherlock, but she has never quite been able to get her head around the fact that Sherlock can simultaneously care about Molly and also be quite happy to be thousands of miles away from her for extended periods of time. Molly has always had a rather good understanding of that particular part of their relationship, and she knows, in her heart of hearts, that no matter how much she loves him, he will never be able to love her back the same way. He wouldn't want the distraction of feelings, and has only just managed to progress to accepting proper friendships these past couple of years.

"Come on," Stacey says as she gets up, apparently realising that Molly isn't going to give her any more Sherlock news to chatter about. "I've brought _Love Actually_ with me."

Molly follows her over to the sofa, her phone grasped tightly in her hand while Stacey sets up the dvd player. She catches the tail end of the news, the usual boxing day guff about some snow in Scotland and more stuff about Magnussen - probably another dozen phone hacking charges have been added to his list of misdemeanours, but Molly couldn't care less, because the picture of him vanishes, replaced with the menu screen for the dvd. Soon enough, Hugh Grant's opening speech pours from speakers, and Molly makes herself comfortable, telling herself that Sherlock will be in touch soon enough.

* * *

It's late, and Stacey is long gone by the time Molly hears news. She's just washing up the last of the frying pans from Stacey's breakfast massacre, and she shakes the soap suds off her hands, quickly dries them on a tea towel and hurries into the lounge to pick up her phone. It's Sherlock, and she slides her thumb across the screen to take the call, then lifts the phone to her ear.

"You okay?"

"You knew, didn't you?" It's not Sherlock's voice that greets her, but Mycroft's. Her shoulders slump at the realisation, dread coursing through her, her hands starting to shake as she imagines the worst possible scenarios.

"Is he okay?"

"He's _fine_," Mycroft says dismissively. "But you knew what he was going to do, didn't you?"

Molly frowns, her concerns not easing one little bit. All Mycroft's words really tell her is that Sherlock is alive. They have very different definitions of okay. "No. I didn't. What's he _done_?"

"Then why the text message?" Mycroft asks. "Or has he really been so disparaging about the family that you thought he might pitch himself off of the roof, _again_?"

Molly sighs, knowing that there's little she can hide from Mycroft. "He told me he was getting involved in something, and that he wanted to keep me away from it. That's why I wasn't there yesterday, and that's all I know."

She hears Mycroft release a small breath of laughter on the other end of the phone, and chews her lip, knowing that if she's walked into some sort of trap that Mycroft's set in order to find out what Sherlock's up to, she'll be in the doghouse for weeks.

"What's happened?" she asks in a quiet voice. "Please Mycroft. Tell me."

"You've seen the _news_," Mycroft says evasively. "Surely you can put two and two together."

"I haven't," Molly replies. "I just saw the end."

Mycroft sighs, and unusually, it's not out of exasperation or impatience. It's genuine. This worries Molly more than anything.

"Magnussen's been murdered," he tells her. "You know of Charles Augustus Magnussen, of course?"

"Newspaper guy, yeah," Molly says. Her brain feels like it's fallen apart. She doesn't know what on Earth this has to do with Sherlock, and nothing seems to fit together properly in her head.

"Sherlock was the one who put the bullet through his brain," Mycroft says heavily.

Molly's blood runs cold. She can't even begin to process that statement. Sherlock _murdering _someone? That doesn't make sense. Why the hell would he do _that_? Why on Christmas day? Why would he want to keep her away from a newspaper owner. She's not famous, she's not interesting, how the hell could he possibly target her? And how big a villain can a newspaper owner really be? Devoid of morals and decency, perhaps. Law-breaking, yes also, but to the point that it would drive Sherlock to _murder_? No way. She won't believe it. Not for a second.

"Where is he now?"

"In custody," Mycroft tells her. "Obviously we can't send him to a real prison; he'd be out in five minutes. We've managed to cover it up sufficiently. Nobody knows who the culprit is, and police are _investigating_…"

"So what's going to happen to him?" Molly asks, gripping her phone tightly to try and keep her hand from shaking.

"He's going to be atoning for his sins by undertaking some work for me. Or rather, for the British government," Mycroft tells her, his voice devoid of all emotion now. "He's going to be despatched next week, and you won't be seeing him for a very long while."

Molly shakes her head. "You can't just send him out into the _wilderness_. He's still _sick_! He's still recovering, what if he ends up relapsing?"

"That really is the _least_ of our concerns right now, Miss Hooper."

Molly doesn't even bother to correct him. "You can't just send him away," she says. "You can't do that. He's your - "

"He put a bullet through a man's skull. I can do what I _like_," Mycroft says coldly. "Good evening, Miss Hooper."

The line goes dead, and Molly drops her phone onto the sofa, pressing her shaking hands against her face. It's not right. It's not _fair_. But if this life has taught her anything, especially this life with Sherlock, it's that life, has never been, and will never _ever_ be fair.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Well it's been a grand total of two weeks since we entered the hiatus, and here we are at the end of this fic. I'll be taking a teensy break from Sherlolly (Loki is getting restless) but I have a handful of one shots which will be worming their way onto the internet in due course. Thank you to all those who reviewed this fic, and especially to those rather wonderful people who have reviewed every single chapter. You're dead nice you are. Hope you enjoy this final instalment, and here's hoping season four falls into place with my headcanon as beautifully as season three did.

* * *

**Full Circle**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Life is unbearably quiet. She tries not to think about things too much, but the news in consumed with speculation about Magnussen's death, interviews with various unimportant people giving their opinion on the matter, aerial shots of Magnussen's designer home, complete with the highly fashionable blue and white police tape. She sees Greg on the telly at one point, assuring the public that he is doing everything he can to bring Magnussen's killer to justice. He has to stop and have a drink of water after that downright lie, and Donovan, seated at his side, maintains her pokerface perfectly, answering questions fired rapidly at her, and dealing with all criticisms of the lack of results while Greg stares down at his doesn't watch the rest of the press conference, she can't, and so she flicks through the channels until she finds a repeat of an old episode of _Friends_.

The days drag by, and Molly spends more and more time with Stacey, who is labouring under the delusion that Sherlock has gone away voluntarily, that he's working abroad and will return in due course, seeking Molly's hand in marriage. Her imagination has always run away with her, but Molly would settle for just the returning bit. Anything at all, actually, a phone call, a text, some sort of contact. She doesn't want to leave things like this.

She wonders if that's why he bought her the necklace, whether he knew, and he wanted to give her one final parting gift. She fiddles with the pendant almost constantly, chewing on her lower lip as she traces the edge of the diamond. She keeps a hold of it while she completes her paperwork, elbow resting on her pages to ensure they don't move while she scribbles her findings onto them. She's learned to do her job while distracted, and it seems she's far more efficient when she's on autopilot, and particularly so when she doesn't have a consulting detective bursting into her lab every five minutes. She'd give anything to have him back. Efficiency is _dull_.

One night, after a dozen texts whining and begging, Stacey manages to convince Molly to go out clubbing, which is always a bad idea. Molly accepts the offer because the alternative to getting drunk and crying outside a kebab shop is staying at home and crying in front of the telly. It's anybody's guess as to which is worse, but at least she won't have Toby coldly judging her outside the kebab shop.

She makes a bit of effort when she's getting ready, hoping that if she makes herself look good, she'll feel good as well. But of course, all she can think about is _him_. When she opens her wardrobe to choose an outfit, all of his clothes are still there. When she goes to have a shower, his shampoo and body wash are still sitting in the rack, and she's tempted to use them, just to remind herself of what they smell like, or rather, what _he _smells like. When she dries her hair, she stares glumly into the mirror, thinking that if she looks at herself, she can't be reminded of him. But then she catches the reflection of his pillow, his creased pyjamas sticking out from underneath it, and she closes her eyes, resisting the urge to throw the hairdryer through the mirror.

Once her hair is dry, she applies her make up and then stands back to take a good look at her reflection. She looks fairly decent, the new, flowy top she bought in the sales a flattering fit, but something isn't quite right. She glances down at her bare wrists and realises what it is immediately, then turns to her dresser to find her bangle. It's not sitting on the top where she normally leaves it, and so she checks in her bedside cabinet, and then Sherlock's, because he can be dreadful hoarder when he wants to be. It's not in any of those places, and so, her patience dwindling, she thrusts her hand into the pocket of his dressing gown, hung on the back of her bedroom door, but it's empty.

She sits down on the bed and realises he must have taken it with him. She buries her face in her hands and tries to get a grip on herself, because it's just a stupid _bangle_, it doesn't mean anything. It was only something cheap she picked up on Portobello Road years ago. She doesn't know why he's so attached to it.

All she knows is that he only ever takes it when he's worried.

* * *

She arrives home, slamming the door behind her, putting the security chain in place and double checking all the locks on her door. She knows she's probably overreacting, but she's scared, far more scared than she's been for a long long while. She had thought that with Jim dead that she wouldn't have to worry about things like this again. After all, how many times in your life can you reasonably get mixed up with someone's arch enemy? But no, apparently it wasn't only Sherlock who faked it that day. Apparently this has all been one big long ridiculous prank designed to drain the life out of her and fill her dread. She rests her forehead against the door, her heart hammering in her chest, and then she realises how incredibly stupid she is.

The lights were already on when she came into the flat.

Slowly, she turns around, one hand lingering on the security chain in case she needs to escape in a hurry. Her lungs are holding onto a breath, ready to emit a scream at any moment, but then she sees him, sitting in the armchair, looking as though he's never been away.

"You've heard then?"

She nods, and she can't believe that he's actually there, she can't believe he's real. Sherlock stands up and she stumbles over to him, her entire body numb. He opens his arms without question and it's a relief, because all she wants to do is make sure he's really back, that this isn't some hallucination, that she hasn't inhaled any unusual gases at work. He feels solid enough, and he's wearing the shirt she bought him for Christmas, which is a shade of deep burgundy with a nice high thread count, soft against the skin of her face. He holds her tightly, resting his chin on top of her head, and she breathes deeply, inhaling his scent, still not quite ready to believe that it's really him.

"Are you back now?" she asks quietly. "Really back?"

"Yeah," he replies. "Given recent events."

"And he's back too? How?"

"I don't know," he murmurs, then presses a kiss to the top of Molly's head. "I don't know."

"Wow," Molly breathes.

"What?"

"Never thought I'd hear you say those words."

She can't see his smile, but she can feel it. Somehow, she always knows what his reaction is. She supposes that's what happens when you've known someone for more than half your life. They become predictable, to a certain extent. In a nice way.

"D'you think he's going to come after you?" She knows the answer already, but needs to hear it come from his lips. If he says it out loud, it will reassure her that he's prepared for such an eventuality, and by being prepared, he can make sure he doesn't lose.

"I should think so," he says with a sigh. "What is it with these irritating people who just won't _stay dead_?"

Molly's lips curve into a brief smile, but it doesn't last. She's far too worried. Just once, just _once_, she'd like to be able to have a life where she doesn't have to worry about the man she loves getting murdered, or sent off on top secret government missions in order to seek redemption. Just once, she'd like to be able to go to sleep, knowing that when she wakes up in the morning, everything will be fine.

"I won't let him hurt you," Sherlock tells her quietly. "You know that, don't you?"

"I'm not worried about that," Molly says, and it's true. She _is_ scared that he'll pop up out of nowhere, of course she is. But as for what happens to her? No, she hasn't really given that any thought. She's more concerned that Jim might, as Sherlock predicted, use her as leverage against him, and that his judgement might be impaired as a result. She'd hate for him to make the wrong choice solely because of her. She's not sure she could live with that.

Her last conversation with Mycroft plays on her mind. She's been trying to ignore it, but deep down she knows that Mycroft would have no reason to lie, and would _not_ send his little brother away on a dangerous assignment unless he had no other choice. She tries not to think about the fact that the hands resting on her back are the same hands that held the gun, nor the fact that the index finger of his right hand, which is currently tracing patterns on her shoulder blade, is the same finger that pulled the trigger.

"Did you really kill Magnussen?" she asks.

"Yes," he says coolly, without hesitation.

"Why?"

"It's not really for me to tell."

Molly pulls away from him so she can meet his eye. "I'm sorry?"

"He was threatening people I care about, but I can't really say who or what with because that wouldn't be fair."

She doesn't understand, and she struggles to find his answer to be a decent enough justification for murder, but she's sure that if she knew all the facts she might be able to see things his way. As it is, she just has to trust that he hasn't made the biggest mistake of his life. She's used to death, deals with it every single day and has done for years, but there's a difference between being used to death and being able to accept that someone you love has _caused_ death. Especially when your job often involves trying to gather evidence to help catch the murderer. And yet here she is, seeking comfort in the arms of one.

"Lord Smallwood killed himself because of Magnussen's blackmail. That's just the tip of the iceberg, he's responsible for far worse things," Sherlock says softly. His tone is different now, warmer, and there's a hint of vulnerability that she's rarely heard in it while he's been clean.

"Why would you care about Smallwood?" Molly asks. It's a fair question. Sherlock has only learned in the last few years to care about the people around him. Why would he give a damn about a stranger?

"Magnussen drove him to suicide," Sherlock says. "In case you've forgotten - "

"But you knew that you were in the right with Jim,_ and _that you weren't going to die," Molly tells him before he tries to compare his situation with Smallwood's. It's not the same, not at all the same. Smallwood's actually _dead_ for a start.

"Yeah," Sherlock says. "And it was still one of the worst days of my life. Imagine what it would have been like for him."

Molly can hardly believe what she's hearing. Empathy? For a stranger? Were he to come out with all this a couple of years ago, she wouldn't have believed it for a moment, would have known it to be a carefully constructed facade of emotion to try and get his own way. But now, with his hands resting at her waist, and the way he's avoiding her gaze, she knows he's being honest. She pulls him closer, holding onto him tightly. Whatever he's done, she knows she can forgive, even without being in full possession of the facts. Magnussen hardly seems like a great loss to her, but it is the enormity of taking a life that she's struggling to wrap her head around. Right now, however, she supposes there are more troublesome, more _living_ things that they have to worry about.

"What d'you think Jim's going to do?"

"I don't know."

There are those words again, but they don't amuse her, not in the slightest this time. When Sherlock Holmes doesn't _know_, it is the exact moment that the rest of the world should start panicking. She holds onto him tighter, not wanting to let him go. If it were possible, she'd be quite happy for the two of them to stay in this flat for all eternity, and not have to worry about criminal masterminds or morally challenged newspaper owners.

"It's going to be all right," he tells her, squeezing her gently.

"But are _you_ going to be all right?" she asks, tilting her head to look up at him.

"Yeah," he says, nodding slowly, and Molly can tell that he's trying to convince himself as much as her. "I'm always going to be all right."

"Promise me," she says, her brow creased with worry. "Promise me, Sherlock."

"I _promise_," he says emphatically, meeting her gaze at last. "You, me, everyone, we're all going to be fine."

"Good," she says softly, rising onto her tip toes to press a kiss against his cheek. She doesn't believe him, not for a second, but they can try to pretend. "That's good."

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
